


Something Rotten

by Tosa



Series: Pound of Flesh [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Gore, Childhood, Coming of Age, Death, F/F, F/M, Family, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Origin Story, Siblings, Violence, War, soft-core body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 148,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tosa/pseuds/Tosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derse has always been a terrible place to live - or so Roxy hears. With a mother acting as advisor to the Black Queen, Roxy has lived a life of nobility, complete with access to magical education and a room with a view from the castle towers. Hers is not the happiest childhood, but politics, at least, are not at the forefront of her worries.<br/>However, when the empress of a defunct wasteland seizes control of the throne, Roxy's comfortable life is upended. She will have to survive being sent hundreds of miles away from her parents, the spread of genocide across a continent, and watching her brother warp from a child too depressed to get out of bed to a militant "prince" of the latest Dersite revolution. Added to these are the trials adolescence brings, including alcoholism, sexuality, and the search for an identity that will distinguish her from the rest of her infamous family members.</p>
<p>Prequel, parallel, and sequel to I'll Have My Pound of Flesh Rare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1: Reign of the Black Queen; Prologue: The Salad Days

Act One: Reign of the Black Queen

Prologue: Salad Days

 

* * *

 

The royal gardens are twice as gorgeous this time of year than they are at any other. Trees' fruit-laden branches arch high towards the atrium's glass ceiling, blossoms opens invitingly to the butterflies and hummingbirds that flit from petal to supple, pink petal, and the koi pond is brimming with the activity following the hatching of thousands of tiny eggs. The whole of the garden is utterly oblivious to the outside world, a faux Eden protected on all sides by palace walls, just beyond which brews a terrible war.

 

Well. Unless one young human woman can convince her queen to stop it. The problem is, she isn't sure if it would be wise to do so. Her foresight as of late has been curiously blurry.

 

Walking alongside each other in this garden are a petite, blond human woman and a tall, graceful black carapace woman. The human woman, who is younger, is named Rose. She is the high seer of Derse's royal court, a magic user and the top advisor to the queen in regards to the actions she must take to create the best possible future for her kingdom. The carapace woman, naturally, is the Black Queen of Derse. She is the only woman to have ever ruled the young kingdom, and thus far, she has proved to be an effective ruler, if at times a harsh one.

 

She is waiting for her seer to tell her if the war with Prospit will bring her kingdom the glory she hopes it will. She is patient, willing to let the younger woman work at her own pace, to reveal her position on the matter at hand when she is ready. Even knowing this, however, Rose realizes that she does not have all day to hesitate. The queen is a busy woman. She has many other duties to attend to.

 

Rose is considering telling the queen the truth about her magic, its inaccessibility as of late, the darkness of the paths lying before her, when they hear a door slam nearby.

 

“Rose!”

 

The women turn to see a little blond boy, about age five, stumbling down the garden's stone path towards them. Even for his size and awkward movement, he catches up quickly, clutching Rose by her orange robes and burying his little face into her leg. “Oh, Dirk...” Rose starts to chide, face red with embarrassment. She's turning to the queen, stuttering out apologies for her child's impoliteness, when, to her chagrin, her husband comes running down the path after Dirk, their two-year-old held tightly against his chest.

 

“Sorry about the kids, your highness,” he says when he catches up, panting slightly. “At this age they don't want anything to do with Dad, they just want to be with Mommy _all_ the time. They're little super-powered magnets, I swear, they can seek Rose out no matter where she is.”

 

He doesn't wither even a little bit when Rose shoots him a look. Deciding she'll properly berate him later, she turns back to the queen. “I apologize for my husband's inability to handle our children, your highness. I would never purposefully allow them to interrupt my time with you like this.” She cards a gentle hand through the hair of the little one clutching her leg right now. “If I can only have a moment to settle them down, I'll have them out of the way in no time and we can finish our discussion...”

 

“That's quite alright, Rose.” The queen smiles lightly at her, eyes crinkling at their corners. Rose cannot tell if it is a look of benevolence or of barely disguised disdain. “It is getting late and I have other appointments that need my attention. You may attend to your family as long as you like, and we will meet back here tomorrow, first thing, to discuss the diplomacy matter I asked you to review.”

 

The human adults bow lowly to her as she departs. The queen and the young boy clutching her seer's skirts barely regard one another. A pity.

 

Once she is out of earshot, Dave turns to Rose, grinning. “Awesome – now you don't have to tell her what you don't know!”

 

“Dave,” Rose grumbles, glaring at him. She reaches down to scoop Dirk up into her arms. “That was utterly reckless. You can't disrespect the queen like that!”

 

“She wasn't disrespected, she was fine with it!” Dave retorts, bouncing Roxy lightly in his arms. The baby girl looks curiously at his face, vehemently sucking her thumb as she curls into his chest. “Besides, this morning you said you weren't ready for this meeting. I bought you time.”

 

They start to head out of the garden, back to their living quarters in the castle's towers. Dave goes on, despite Rose's sour expression. “This is not a bad thing, Rose. You can take your time and force a vision.”

 

“I _can't_ force a vision, Dave, they have to come naturally.” She sighs, adjusting her grip on Dirk. He's starting to get too big to carry, and his arms around her neck are like a vice. “Nothing has been coming to me lately. I feel so useless. The queen is on the brink of making a decision that will change all of our lives, and I cannot for the life of me see any of the possible outcomes.”

 

“Then fuck magic,” Dave says. Then, at Rose's sigh, “Oh, sorry. Dirk, don't repeat that.” The little boy doesn't give any indication that he was listening, his face too deeply buried in his mother's neck. “No, but Rose, if your magic's gone, then use your brain! You were always the smart one. Advise her the best you can.”

 

Rose hesitates. “I don't trust myself.”

 

“You should,” Dave replies, stubbornly.

 

They pause so Rose can ask Dirk if he's willing to walk. When he nods his consent, she places him back on the ground, they resume walking hand-in-hand.

 

Rose wishes the towers weren't so far away, but she is thankful for the walk for giving her time to talk to Dave, and she is thankful for the fact that they haven't seen many other people thus far. Still, she lowers her voice at what she says next. “Dave... what if I'm never able to see again?”

 

“You'd manage,” he says automatically. “Like I said, you're smart. But I don't think your magic's gone forever – you're just blanking because you're freaked out. I mean. You're twenty years old, and a mom, and the head advisor to the queen. She's put this huge responsibility on your shoulders. But she wouldn't have if you couldn't handle it – she's a totally remarkable person, and she probably sees that in you, too. Naturally, you're going to get stressed, and your visions are going to get hazy. But they'll come back. Until then, you've got to take care of yourself. The more stressed you get, the less likely you're going to get over this block.”

 

She sighs. “You have no idea how huge this matter is. I can't just make any old decision – I told you, the lives of everyone in the kingdom rest on this...”

 

Dave shrugs. “Try me.”

 

“It's confidential.”

 

“I won't tell.”

 

Empty carpets in a deep, rich purple stretch out on either side of them. They are the only ones in the hall. Still, she looks about and lowers her voice before going on. “...Do you know those carapace militants? The ones who want to go to war with Prospit?”

 

Dave nods. “Yeah. The ones who want to take a few tracts of land back, right? They've got some good ideas.”

 

“...The queen is actually considering it. She's considering going to war with Prospit.”

 

Dave's eyebrows shoot up. “That's the 'diplomacy matter?' Political leaders and their euphemisms. Well, what do you think? Do you agree with the carapaces? Is it worth a war?”

 

“I just don't know. Those people want full access to the lakes, they want more land and better resources, but how can we claim what hasn't been ours for over a century?”

 

Dave shrugs again. “If it was wrongfully taken from the Dersites, it was wrongly taken. It doesn't matter how long ago.”

 

“But an all-out war... Dave, people we love from either side might die.”

 

“Rose.” He stops walking and looks at her seriously. “We left Prospit behind. That isn't our life anymore. We don't have any loyalty to that kingdom.”

 

“I don't care about Prospit the kingdom,” Rose huffs, “I care about our friends. Karkat's in the Prospitian army. What if you have to kill him? What if the war bleeds into the city, what if John and Jade and the kids die, what then?” She distantly feels Dirk's hand squeeze hers, anxious.

 

Dave falls silent, rubbing small, gentle circles onto Roxy's back. “...I don't think Karkat would blame us, for fighting for what we thought was right. And you know John, he'll have his ear to the door for any attacks on the capital, he'll drag his whole family to the countryside overnight if he has too. The people we love aren't what we're fighting against, Rose – what we want is financial freedom from Prospit. Derse's independence is a sham – we'll never be really be free from Prospit until we have the resources necessary to take care of ourselves.”

 

“You sound like a propaganda poster.”

 

“Yeah! A really well-researched one! With, like, cited sources and photos and everything!”

 

They've reached the staircase and are starting to ascend. Rose is worried that with the high walls, their voices will carry. She tries to coax Dave into whispers. “Dave, if we go to war with Prospit, you will be on the front lines as a knight in Derse's army. Think of your family!”

 

“I _am!_ ” he hisses, finally lowering his voice. “I want our kids to live in a better Derse.”

 

“A war torn Derse?”

 

“This could be the war to end wars!”

 

Rose scoffs at that.

 

Dave frowns at her. “...You've had a complaint for every reason I've given to go to war. So, you're against it? Is that what you're going to tell the queen?”

 

“I don't know!” Rose gently tugs Dirk's hand, bidding him to go faster. “I don't know what I believe, Dave. Derse needs the fresh water. It needs land that hasn't been subsidized by highbloods. It needs ports that aren't monopolized by sea-dwellers. It needs a draft that isn't a death sentence. But I truly don't know that invading Prospit will give us those things.”

 

“Well, asking nicely certainly hasn't worked.”

 

“I know. Have you heard the numbers on the water tax raise? It's a wonder the lower classes haven't just collapsed, having to pay so much just for fresh water.”

 

“Rose.” Dirk squeezes her hand to catch her attention. “The mayor said the big lake belongs to us, but Prospit took it.”

 

Rose throws an exasperated look at Dave as they reach the top of the steps. He shrugs at her, fumbling with the door to their quarters. “What?”

 

“You've taught him to call that man the mayor?”

 

“Yeah. So?”

 

“He's not a real mayor, Dave.”

 

“Yeah, I know. It's just a nickname! You know, because he knows everybody. He's got all the connections. He's like the mayor.”

 

“Do you even know his real name?”

 

Dave hesitates. Dirk tugs Rose's skirt to catch her attention again.

 

“How can the lake be ours if it's in Prospit? Did they pick the lake up and take it?”

 

She picks him up and carries him inside the entry room of their living quarters, talking as she goes. “Well, Dirk, Prospit and Derse used to be one big country. But one day, the Eighth White King banished all of the black carapaces to the east of the country, to a borough they called 'Derse.'”

 

He frowns at her as she settles them onto a sofa. “Why?”

 

“He was a huge racist,” Dave supplies.

 

Rose sighs. “He wasn't a terribly nice person. In any case, Derse used to be Prospit's industrial sector, but by then was mostly abandoned, because Prospitians figured out how to run factories on cleaner, magical energy. Because of all of the smoky factories that used to run there, the air in Derse was very dirty. So dirty that the sky was – and still is – dark all day, all year round. There were no lakes in Derse; only the sea, which churned relentlessly on all three sides, barring the black carapaces' ability to leave for a better place. The black carapaces couldn't even grow crops in Derse because the soil was rocky and high in salt. Fishing was the only industry available to them, but as soon as the Alternians began to emigrate-”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“'Emigrate' means they moved out of Alternia and went to Derse instead.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because sometimes it's easier to get rich in another country,” Dave cuts in, settling down at the table nearby with Roxy, getting ready to feed her. “Your money's worth more overseas. Derse was really poor, and at the time, Alternia was extremely rich – you could buy a whole port town in Derse for a hundred Alternian dollars.”

 

“That's an exaggeration,” Rose chuckles. “But it's true that sea-dwellers came here and started to take over all of the fishing and boating industries, so carapaces had little to support themselves with.”

 

“And when they told the eighth White King that what he'd done was wrong,” Dave says, “he let Derse become an independent country, to shut the black carapaces up. But it wasn't even real independence, because the black carapaces had little they could support themselves with. They still relied on Prospit for... well. Everything we rely on Prospit for to this very day.”

 

Dirk looks as if he understands, but his parents aren't entirely sure. He's only five, after all.

 

“...Eighth?” Dirk asks, finally. “There are eight whole White Kings?”

 

Dave and Rose laugh. “By now, there have been twelve,” Rose says.

 

Dirk looks as if he is thinking hard. “How many Black Queens have there been?”

 

“One.”

 

“One?”

 

“Yes. Just one. And she is a very good one.” Rose runs her fingers through the boy's hair, thinking.

 

“...Dave.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Rose is looking at Dirk still as she talks. “You know, I never thought I'd come to love this country as much as I have. But I do. We've only been here for just over two years, and so many good things have happened to us because of these people's generosity.” She tugs Dirk onto her lap. “When we were kids, people spoke of this place as if it were a festering hole of crime and death, but the people are so much... realer than that.”

 

He's spooning food into Roxy's mouth when he replies, “So... what are you thinking, Rose? Do we or don't we fight? What do you think is best for the people who took us in when we were down?”

 

She shuts her eyes.

 

→

 

“It's a carapace war,” the sea-dweller sneers, black lip curling over sharp teeth. “You can't tell me that _I'll_ benefit from this in anyway.”

 

“Well, considering the way water costs are going to go down, and if we get access to good farming land...”

 

The troll interrupts her with a huff, stamping one expensively clad foot. “I don't need fresh water, I live in the _sea_ for fuck's sake.”

 

“Please don't curse, there are children present,” Rose replies, bouncing Roxy on her hip. “And in any case, you are the minority when it comes to not needing fresh water.”

 

“I shouldn't even have to _pay_ those taxes...”

 

Dirk has gotten away from his mother and run up to the wooden fence, watching in awe as horses erupt from the royal stables. They are glorious creatures, tall and thoroughly muscled, with shiny coats and flowing manes that have been well-attended to. Rose calls out a warning to him from many feet away not to crawl under the fence, not to stick his fingers in, and though he pretends to ignore her, he heeds her word. He is contented to watch the creatures, even as he yearns to be old enough to get up close to them and learn how to ride.

 

The sea-dweller, violet fins on either side of his head flared, is quite focussed on arguing at Rose about the futility of Derse's war with Prospit until she points into the distance. “Eridan, pay attention – your boy's just got on his horse. He'll want you to see him. Cheer him on.”

 

Scowling, Eridan follows Rose's pointing finger to where an adolescent troll, about five and a half sweeps old, is seated on a horse. He is the spitting image of Eridan, with zigzag orange horns sprouting from a mess of slicked-back, black hair, violet fins on either side of his face displaying his rank at the height of the Alternian hemospectrum. His sharp teeth clench as he grips the reigns, looking nervous as the gigantic, adult land-dwelling troll beside him tries to reassure him despite sweating bullets of his own.

 

“How impressive,” Eridan sniffs. “He's on the hoofbeast. He's a regular pro.”

 

“Don't be cruel,” Rose chides. “He's just a child. It's his first lesson.”

 

“Equius had better hurry him along, I've got other things to do.”

 

“Equius teaches riding for a living and is taking the time Cronus needs to properly learn. Why would you even agree to come out here if you don't care?”

 

“It _seemed_ like the thing to do,” Eridan sighs. “He asked for lessons, and I didn't have a good enough reason to refuse. I just don't know how to deal with wigglers. I'm a troll, we're not suited for raising our progeny like you mammalian types.”

 

Rose rolls her eyes. Roxy tugs her hair and lets out a soft, affectionate coo. “Then maybe you shouldn't have volunteered to take him.”

 

“And leave a kid of his blood caste in one of the government’s vile orphanages? I'll risk failing as a lusii over leaving him to rot with the dregs of society, thank you very much.” He scowls as he watches the younger troll nervously plod through his lessons. “The whole adoption program is idiotic, though, if you ask me. Just the sort of thing a carapace woman would come up with, knowing nothing about our culture. We are biologically predisposed to eat our young, you know. We're wildly competitive with others of our kind, even the helpless grubs.”

 

Rose shrugs. “What other option is there? Like you said, without you, he'd be living in a government-sanctioned orphanage. If older trolls aren't willing to take in grubs of their caste, where else will the children go? The lusii have all but died out.”

 

Eridan's mouth is a tight line. Cronus wobbles where he sits atop his horse, prompting Equius to reach out and steady him. “Whatever,” the sea-dweller scoffs.

 

He and Rose stand side-by-side in silence, watching as Cronus finally manages to calm his nerves enough to get the horse to do as he pleases. Equius gives a crooked, broken-toothed smile as he guides the boy along. Dirk, meanwhile, watches from the sidelines, his tiny brows furrowed intensely, obviously in deep concentration. Rose wonders if he's silently critiquing Cronus's technique, if he's thinking of all the ways that he could do it better. She can't tell, of course; he's too far away for her to shout such brash things at him and not catch Eridan or Cronus's attention.

 

Roxy babbles in her ear, tugs on her shirt. “I know,” Rose coos, kissing her cheek. “Dad will be out soon.”

 

Many yards away from the fenced-in enclosure where Cronus struggles through his riding lessons, Dave is commanding young knights on horseback, teaching them basic maneuvers in an open field. The young men and women, trolls and humans and carapaces alike, brandish practice swords made of wood and follow his drills to a T. They are not here for recreation like the sea-dweller boy; they are here to learn how to fight for their country, and to win.

 

“I'd take him back to Alternia, if I could,” Eridan says, suddenly. “But it's due to collapse any day now. Hardly anyone's left and the government is losing its grip. Have you seen the sheer volume of lowbloods who have come here _legally_ recently? It's only a matter of time before the whole empire's a wasteland.” He sighs. “It's hardly worth the trip if we'll just have to turn around again the minute the country collapses.”

 

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Rose replies, sincerely. “I know you grew up there. It must be difficult, not being able to return home.”

 

Eridan shrugs, not replying. They continue to stare into the distance for a long time.

 

After about a half an hour after he said he'd be finished, Dave takes his horse back to the stables and heads for where his wife and kids stand on the sidelines. When he gets to the fence, he makes a show of vaulting over it, prompting Dirk into shivers of excitement and greedily reaching hands. Dave indulges him, scooping the little boy up and tossing him into the air once or twice and catching him, before finally coming back to where Rose stands, Dirk giggling contentedly in his arms.

 

“What's up, Ampora? You waiting for me?”

 

“I'm just here with the boy,” Eridan replies, jerking his head in Cronus's direction.

 

Dave follows his line of vision, then whistles. “He's going to be a derby star someday.”

 

“I'm so sure,” Eridan snorts. “Hopefully after today he won't beg that I bring him back here. It's your fault for lending him those trash... human novels! He got so worked up about that – what was that one with the hoofbeasts? He insists on calling them horses, by the way. He sounds like some wretched lowerclass boy, or worse, a human.”

 

“Hey, nothing's wrong with that,” Dave replies. His grin is contagious; soon Rose has adopted it, too. “As a life-long human, I can guarantee it's not as bad as it looks. I mean, I know we're soft and fleshy, but we live totally fulfilling lives. Hey.” He turns away from Eridan. “Sorry I took so long, Rose, I just wanted to make sure the new recruits actually absorbed what I was trying to get across. You get too bored waiting for me?”

 

“Oh, no, no, Eridan and I were just having the most illuminating conversation about the importance of magic in our society.”

 

“We most certainly were _not,_ ” Eridan scoffs. “Like I'd entertain such a preposterous subject.”

 

Dave looks at Rose, who smiles slyly at him. “Oh, come on, Ampora,” Dave crows. “You still harping about magic not being real? That's insulting, my wife's right here.”

 

Eridan turns to Rose in a huff. “No offense, but your so-called _magic_ is just a mixture of positive psychology convincing you you're doing something and natural electrical waves that course throughout the body. So, your electrical aura is a little stronger than regular people's. So you can zap a couple of objects and fry them up with your mind, maybe you have a seizure or two and claim your hallucinations are visions of the future. In any case, there's a perfectly biological explanation for even the most phantasmagorical of effects of so-called ' _magic_.'”

 

Rose and Dave are trading looks, trying not to laugh. “But Eridan,” Rose says, “I don't do anything so clear as seeing the future, that's just impossible. I see probable outcomes, and I sense whether those outcomes are positive or negative.”

 

Eridan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that's why your magic is the least reputable. All you do is strategize! You don't have to be a fricking oracle to do that, you're just good at making judgements that shape the political battlefront to our advantage!

 

“Why, thank you for telling me that I am good at what I do,” Rose titters. She places a hand on Dave's shoulder, nodding politely to Eridan. “Now, if you'll excuse us...”

 

The blond pair depart, each carrying a wriggling child. When they've gotten far enough away from the field to be out of Eridan's earshot, the two burst into laughter.

 

“What'd he call magic?” Dave asks between chuckles. “Electric waves, or some such nonsense?”

 

“I have a high electrical aura, he said. Oh, but he wasn't nearly as funny as the last time we saw him. Do you remember when he told me I can use magic because I've got the power of a thunderstorm inside of me? How very scientific.”

 

“A power _like_ a thunderstorm, I thought.”

 

“Oh, who cares? You and I both know he's talking out of his ass. Oh, oops – Dirk, don't repeat that word.”

 

Their good mood seems to have transferred to their children, who smile and giggle in their arms. They pause so Dave can lift Dirk up onto his shoulders, the little boy happily digging his hands into his father's hair.

 

But the first battles are lurking on the horizon. Within days, the royal army will be deployed. For now, the young couple is contented to spend their last few days in innocent bliss like this, discussing trivialities, pretending that things will be this peaceful forever.

 

→

 

“We came to this country to be together, and now you're leaving me. Maybe forever. It sort of defeats the point, doesn't it?”

 

He squeezes her hands in his. “You're going to be fine without me.” She doesn't answer, but she nods, squeezing his hands back.

 

He has said good-bye to their children, but he catches the sound of a door creaking and sees them looking at him from the doorway of the nursery, faces wretched. Rose follows Dave's gaze and quickly wipes her eyes at the sight of them. “Oh, really, Dirk – getting your sister, up...”

 

“She wanted to see him, too,” Dirk defends himself, clutching his sister in his arms. Roxy nods rapidly, managing not to make a sound despite her quivering lips.

 

Dave walks away from Rose, their hands that were still clutching each other slipping apart. “Hey, you two. Don't cry...”

 

Perhaps one of Roxy's earliest memories will be of this, of her brother's tears wetting her hair, of his voice, high and distressed. “Don't leave. Please don't leave. It's not nice to fight!”

 

The man falls to his knees and gathers his kids into his arms, feeling their little bodies shake in his grip. Eventually Rose joins him, and together they hush their children with whispers of how quickly they'll be a family again, of the things they'll do together when they're reunited.

 

It isn't until Dave has departed and she thinks her children are asleep in bed that Rose truly allows herself to cry. And she does so, for hours. It's a defining image for Dirk, perhaps one he carries with him for the rest of his life. He watches his mother from the doorway, as still and silent as a statue, while his little sister sleeps, exhausted, sweating in her crib.

 

Roxy feels bad. She isn't entirely sure why; all she knows is that her dad is going away. She's too young to understand for how long. In any case, the sheer enormity of the situation is enough to pull her into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. Act 1, Part 1: The Empire Crumbles

Act One: Reign of the Black Queen

Part One: The Empire Crumbles

 

* * *

  


Roxy, like most people, cannot pinpoint the exact memory that is her oldest. If she was forced to choose, however, like most, she would simply pick something that stuck out to her, a memory that left a really big impression on her. She'd likely describe a vague image from when she was four years old. Her mother had fallen asleep on the sofa, face-down. With a small, curiously sorry-looking frown, Roxy's nanny gently pulled a blanket over Rose and ushered the children out of the room, so that their mother could sleep in peace.

 

Of course, Roxy at six is much wiser than Roxy at four. She now realizes that her mother was not asleep, but had passed out. Nepeta tries her hardest to cover their mother's habits up by claiming she is merely overtired by her job – which isn't untrue; despite the way her magic has remained stunted, only occasionally surfacing as a pathetic hiccup of vision, the queen has insisted on keeping Rose as a top advisor to the crown. Apparently, Roxy's mother is responsible for a lot of good decisions that have helped people not quite as lucky as her get help when their spouses go off to war and leave them with nothing. Roxy doesn't know exactly what any of that means, but she knows it leaves her mother with little left to give _her,_ and so she feels slightly bitter about the whole thing.

 

What's more, Dirk – who, at age nine, is an indispensable font of information on Grown Up Matters – says that the real reason their mother sleeps all the time and giggles and slurs her words when she is awake is because she is drinking a lot of alcohol, which, he explains, is a drink for grown ups that makes them act all weird and get really sleepy. Nepeta seems more than a little alarmed when Roxy shows off her knowledge of this word, “alcohol,” and at that point, instead of lies, Nepeta begins to resort to other tactics for when Roxy starts to ask difficult questions: namely, she changes the subject.

 

Nepeta is a troll. Unlike Roxy, who is peach-colored, she has gray skin and pointy, orange horns that look like cat ears. Sometimes Roxy will scratch them, and Nepeta will make kitty noises, and the two will role play animals for hours. When they have to quiet down because Rose is home and trying to nap, then Nepeta and Dirk will draw pictures of whatever Roxy demands (usually, herself or kittens).

 

Roxy loves Nepeta – she's so much _fun_ for a grown-up _,_ even if the food she feeds them is really weird. Dirk has threatened numerous times after Nepeta has gone home for the day to switch to vegetarianism. All that red meat – he didn't think anyone could ever screw up a steak enough to make him never want to eat it again, but after the influx of cat hairs in the last meal, he's having second thoughts. Half the time she doesn't even remove the animal's head, and they have to look into its shriveled up eye sockets while they eat its body. He says he doesn't understand why Roxy isn't more traumatized.

 

But then, Roxy doesn't have a whole lot of room in her life to be traumatized. Considering her father has been gone longer than she ever knew him, and her mother is constantly incapacitated, she is a child who is used to having excess emotional baggage. As a Strider, she is also quite good at suppressing it. Perhaps when she's older, her tendency to bury her misery deep in her psyche will prove fatal, but for now, she can force herself to look past all the bad in her life and focus instead on the good things. Like her toys, and the big castle grounds, and Nepeta, and Dirk.

 

Besides, it's not like Rose _never_ pays attention to her children. There are plenty of times where she'll stroke their hair and tell them stories, or where she'll send Nepeta home and play with them way past their bedtime. On good days, which have been increasing as of late, she comes home happy to see them and ready to make up for all the hours she's been away at work or crying in her room. On bad days, which seemed to be almost every day for a very long time, she would stumble in and start drinking right away, or spend the afternoon in bed. Those were the days Nepeta took them outside to play, when she and Dirk accompanied Roxy at Feferi's house for lessons instead of dropping her off alone.

 

Feferi is another troll. She is convinced she can teach Roxy magic, saying mothers have a tendency to pass their magical abilities to their daughters. Feferi, as a troll, didn't _technically_ have a mom, but she did have a mother figure who helped foster her grimdark abilities when she was a young girl. 

 

Feferi has made Roxy her pet project. Roxy doesn't always understand the lessons – Feferi, like Rose, is a practitioner of grimdark magics, meaning that in order for Roxy to learn the spells necessary, she must first grasp the looping, speckled alphabet of the Old Language in which spells are conducted. Roxy tries her best to match guttural sounds to these hieroglyphics, tries her best to understand the nearly equation-like method that is spellcasting when her grasp of math has barely even touched double digits. (“Don't worry,” Feferi claims, “It becomes like second-nature. Eventually, you'll be casting spells on a whim, without even knowing what you're doing!”) But she hopes that maybe, if she's good at magic, she and her mom will have something they can bond over. She'll have something that'll make Rose want to be with her more.

 

→

 

She's falling, falling, and even though she knows the end result will hurt, for one thrilling moment, she's having fun.

 

And then Roxy's scraped her knee bad enough to tear her pants open. Her knee isn't mortally injured – it'll scab thickly, in that way they do when children still have that perfect mix of recklessness and indestructibility. Her scrape doesn't even hurt all that badly, but seeing the blood pulls a whimper from her mouth, and before she knows it, she's sprinting back up the hill, sobbing and reaching desperately for her older brother.

 

Dirk catches her by the waist just as Nepeta comes running up, fretting. “Oh no! Purrrr Roxy!” she trills, mimicking cat sounds as a last-ditch effort to keep the little girl from crying. She reaches out to Roxy, but Dirk is possessive of her, and holds her close to him.

 

The human girl buries her face in her brother's front. He runs his fingers through her hair, murmuring, “It's alright, Roxy, let us see.”

 

Nepeta can't help but wince at the wound when the girl finally calms herself down enough to show them, but Dirk maintains composure. “Don't worry, that'll be easy to clean up. Here, we'll go home, I'll carry you on my back.”

 

It's comical, given her size and his, a scrawny nine-year-old and his big, six-year-old sister, but he still manages to carry her the whole way home. Roxy has calmed down considerably, and even allows herself to laugh as Dirk jokes around with her, distracting her from her stinging knee. Nepeta hovers around them, sure not to let Roxy fall off her brother's back. She seems to fade into the background, an afterthought to siblings contented with just each other's company.

 

By the time they get back to their home in the tower, Roxy's knee has stopped bleeding and her eyes are dry. She's smiling at something Dirk is telling her, clutching him close, thinking that she's lucky to have him, that she's lucky he's there for her.

 

When they open the door to their tower home, their mother is there. “Oh my gracious – Roxy, what happened to your knee?”

 

And just like that, Roxy's crying again. She's not sure why; there's something about her mother's full attention on her, her gloriously rare pity, that has Roxy overwhelmed with emotion.

 

Long after Roxy's knee has been patched up and her clothes changed into ones not torn or grass-stained, Rose pats the sofa beside her. “Come here, Dirk.”

 

Perhaps a bit jealous, Roxy leans into her mother, bunching one small hand in her mother's clothes. Dirk approaches cautiously where his mother is mending the tear in Roxy's pants.

 

“I'm going to show you how to sew.”

 

Dirk crinkles his nose. “Isn't that something girls do?”

 

Rose chuckles softly. Roxy wonders if she's been drinking, but it feels like a different kind of laugh, a knowing laugh. “You're a boy, aren't you, Dirk? That won't stop just because I teach you how to handle a needle and thread. Come on, sit beside me. This will help you later if you tear something and I'm not here.”

 

“Oh, I can take care of all of that,” Nepeta laughs from their right. She's sitting in an armchair, sipping something from a mug. Coffee, Roxy thinks. That's also a drink that's just for grown-ups, but according to Dirk, it's nothing like alcohol. Roxy wonders at these things that grown-ups have kept just for themselves, and thinks them terribly greedy _._ She hates being left out on mere basis of her age, a thing she cannot help.

 

“No, Nepeta, I want him to learn this. It's not bad for a boy to know how to sew, and besides, it feels nice to be able to do things for oneself. It frees you from the adults in your life somewhat. Look here, Dirk. You have very good eyes and very good precision, can you thread this needle for me?”

 

She shows him how to double-up the thread, then wraps it around her fingers and slips it off, bunching the string together so it knots. She mends half the hole and then coaxes him into trying for himself, and he isn't terrible at it.

 

“I want to learn, too,” Roxy says with a pout.

 

“Not right now, Roxy. When you're older. Your hands need to be more world-weary for this sort of thing.”

 

She watches her older brother handle the needle with ease and she scowls. She feels possessive because those are her pants, and it's her mother, too, but she's never old enough to bond with her in ways that seem most important.

 

“It's not that fun, Roxy,” Dirk says. “You're not missing anything.”

 

“Diiiirk...”

 

“Trust me,” he says, and he offers her a small smile. “It's not like a game. It's very repetitive and boring.” 

 

At his sincerity, she feels strangely better about being excluded. She loves her older brother. Even sweet, darling Nepeta always wants to hide the secrets of adulthood from her, but Dirk is always there to explain things so she doesn't feel left behind. Only Dirk will tell her that it's okay to cry, while simultaneously soothing her enough that she doesn't want to anymore.

 

She smiles a gappy, six-year-old's smile. “When I grow up, we're going to get married,” she tells Dirk firmly, and that is when her mother's body seems to seize up. Roxy loosens her grip on the orange fabric. “Mommy...?”

 

Any normal parent would have laughed at Roxy's comment. But Rose seems bothered by it. Dirk looks at her face, seems to acknowledge a hint of fear there, and then... The concern on his face is gone. He's smiling patiently at Roxy. “You can't marry me, Roxy.”

 

Roxy frowns. “Why _not?_ You're a boy, and I love you best!”

 

Dirk fully smiles at that. “We're siblings. Siblings can't get married.”

 

“Yes,” Rose says stiffly, carding her hands awkwardly through Roxy's hair. “You'll find another boy. You've got years ahead of you to find a husband.”

 

Roxy huffs, crossing her arms petulantly. “I don't want another husband! I want Dirk!”

 

Nepeta and Dirk laugh at her, and it makes her feel even more annoyed. She feels excluded from the fun, the child amongst scheming adults all over again. Her mother remains curiously silent, offering only a small, awkward grimace. Rose falls deeply into her thoughts, emerging only once Dirk prods her about whether his needlework is good enough. “Oh? Yes, yes. Here, I'll finish it up for you, I'll show you how to close it up...”

 

She ties the knot and cuts off the excess thread with her scissors. “There. All better.”

 

→ 

 

“The Alternian Empire has fallen!”

 

Roxy and her mother look up from the puzzle pieces strewn across the table to see that a troll is sprinting throughout the grounds, telling anyone who will hear: “It's fallen! The Alternian Empire is no more! Praise be to the Signless in all of his great glory!”

 

A few feet away, there is a snort. “What else is new?” 

 

There is a broad, carapace man standing just a few feet away. He is clad in the uniform and carrying the spear characteristic of a royal guard. Rose smirks at him. “I know that country's been decaying for ages, but they've only just officially announced it. We'll probably be receiving a massive influx of immigrants soon.”

 

“No surprise there,” the guard grunts. “We're already overrun with them.” Then, after a pause, “That is a lot of foreigners to come fresh off the boat, though – don't they have a whole other alphabet? Do they even speak our language? How will they ever adapt?”

 

The guard ponders these questions as the troll continues to shout, occasionally running up to tables and chairs full of court members attempting to relax on the grounds to tell them the news. “Is it okay for that man to be running about, yelling like that?” Rose asks. “You're not going to fetch him?”

 

The guard snaps out of his thoughts and sees the man heckling a group of people. A glass of something spills and a woman shrieks. “I guess I should.” He brandishes his spear as he stalks off. “Damn trolls...”

 

Roxy mashes a piece into the puzzle and finds that, unlike her last few tries, this one fits. She wonders what the picture will be when they're done. Her mother hides the box covers from her because she knows Roxy likes the surprise.

 

The collapse of countries reminds her. “When is Daddy coming home?”

 

“Soon,” Rose promises. Roxy nods. She feels bad because she doesn't care too much. She hasn't seen her father since she was nearly a baby. Dirk is the one who feels bad about it, who asks every day. He's the one who tries to emulate his dad in every way, to pick up on his every vaguely-remembered mannerism, to attempt to fit into the clothes he's left behind. Rose is the one who can't get out of bed some days because she misses him so.

 

Whether Roxy quite understands it or not, she feels bad because she barely knew her father, because she's completely content just to have her mother here with her. She continues putting pieces back into place, the picture on the table becoming clearer and clearer.

 

They're nearly finished when the pieces run out. “Oh, no,” Rose sighs, looking into the box, lifting it to see underneath, looking on her chair, and checking every where she can. “There's just one piece missing...”

 

“You can still tell what it is,” Roxy says. She smooths her tiny hand over the image of a wizard, his long white beard cascading down over glittering robes, every wrinkle and blush of his benevolent face painted with fine detail. A purplish, magical aura surrounds him, illuminating the dark background. He seems to carry an infinite wisdom, an even more infinite calm. “So pretty!”

 

→

 

“Oh Signless, leader of the downtrodden, defender of justice, sole member of blood caste that would unite all spectrums and races, let us pray that you bestow upon us the strength to eradicate the oppressive high bloods, so that the scourge of the Empire may truly be at rest. Amen.”

 

Soon after the last wave of Alternian immigrants begin pouring in, prayer is banned in schools. It is unsurprising; the queen has long been hostile to Skaianity, and few found it unlikely she wouldn't find exotic religions just as threatening to her power. 

 

Shortly after, Rose, despite raising her children without religion, pulls them out of public school and begins to educate them at home.

 

→ 

 

It is an oppressively hot summer morning. Roxy is listening, entranced, as her mother weaves tales of magic and adventure with nothing to go off except her own imagination. Nepeta has been gone since Rose got home; for the first time in ages, her help is not required. Dirk, across the room, is working feverishly on some drawing, glancing up at the clock every so often like he's only got so long to work on his art before some violent timer will cut him off.

 

The moment the knock at the door sounds, Rose's voice and Dirk's pencil scratching fall utterly silent. If not for the ticking of the clock, Roxy would swear that she just witnessed all of time stop around her. Maybe, for Dirk and for her mother, it has.

 

The door opens and a man with messy, straw-colored hair comes in. He's dressed in a deep, rich red, the sort one would find only on a knight of the highest ranks, and over his shoulder is a rucksack. His personal belongings, Roxy registers distantly.

 

“Hey,” the man says, his voice all too familiar. Rose and Dirk immediately jump from their seats and go to him, arms outstretched, and hug him desperately tight. Roxy, meanwhile, remains stunned in her seat. She sees her mom kiss this man on the cheek, hears her say, “Hey? Really, that's the first word you say to your wife and children, when you haven't seen us for years? Just hey?” She sees Dirk beam up at him as if the man is the messiah himself, and suddenly all three people are babbling, saying how much they missed each other, how glad they are to be together again.

 

Roxy knows this man is her father. She sees his eyes, a harsh red that contrasts with her mother's violet ones, fiery like Dirk's orange ones. She sees his skin tone and his hair color, she sees his face shape, and she... she doesn't recognize him, not really. He definitely looks related to them, but he is strange nonetheless. He seems smaller than she remembers, but then, she remembers very little. Her memories of being two years old are hazy, nonspecific. She knows only that his voice strikes a chord somewhere deep inside of her, that his face looks like home. It's all familiar, but she doesn't know why.

 

Her father is complimenting Dirk's growth. He can barely get his arms around his shoulders, he can barely lift him, what a warrior he will be. And then Dave's looking at Roxy, and what is she supposed to do? She recognizes this man, she knows this man, and yet she doesn't. He grins at her and reaches out to her, breathing her name like a prayer, and all at once she's sliding off the couch, and she's walking, falling into his arms. 

 

He says similar things to her as he did to Dirk about how big she has gotten, except he doesn't seem proud of her growth like he was with Dirk. He seems to be upset, to see her go from a baby to a little girl who talks and has interests and has developed an entire interior life bereft of him. And then this strange man, her father, is clutching her, and crying, which only serves to make Dirk and her mother emotional by proxy, and Roxy is suddenly the calm eye of a bittersweet storm, crushed in the middle of a loving and teary embrace that leaves her feeling flustered, yes, but not sad. He has finally come home, and he and Dirk and Rose are all sad for him, to have missed him, for him having missed them, for all of the pivotal moments they were unable to share.

 

And there is Roxy in the center, unsure how exactly to feel.

 

→

 

The war with Prospit ends in victory for Derse. Prospit hands the borough Lolar, for which the two kingdoms fought, over to Derse. Lolar is home to a gigantic freshwater lake, an unpolluted sky, and large tracts of land suited for farming. Derse's government claims full rights and ownership over the land, but sets up subsidies to allow citizens to cultivate the land responsibly. When the previous Prospitian tenants are kicked out, as per agreements, suddenly, Derse's economy is brimming with available jobs.

 

If any unemployed Dersites aren't feeling too keen on the new land, they can always work under-the-table constructing the Wall. The Wall was Prospit's idea, and is the country's ultimatum: the border between Derse and Prospit must be closed off to prevent this sort of warfare from ever happening again. The Black Queen mostly consents to this building project because she thinks the idea of such a literal border is not only difficult and time-consuming to build, but unlikely to keep her out if she so happens to decide to invade Prospit again.

 

Soon after construction of the Wall begins, something bizarre happens in Prospit's political realm. The current White King, stating that he feels he is to blame for Prospit's loss in the war, decides to apologize to the country for his failure as a leader by resigning from his throne. His final act as king is to install his head advisor, a mysterious foreigner, as his heir.

 

This is how Kurloz Makara quietly claims the Prospitian throne, and is the first omen of many to foreshadow that something is rotten on the Skaian continent.


	3. Act 1, Part 2: Codependency

Act One: Reign of the Black Queen

Part Two: Codependency

* * *

 

Dave notices almost at once that Roxy's bond with him is far weaker than those he shares with either Rose or Dirk. Determined to make up for lost time, he starts on a campaign to win her favor. His story-telling abilities greatly diverge from Rose's; his bedtime stories feature fewer wizards and convoluted plots and more bathroom humor and absurd situations. This tactic works for about a week, before Rose bans Dave from bedtime story duty because the tales he has been twisting for their daughter have been getting her so wound up that she cannot sleep. Bursts of faint giggles would travel down the hall from Roxy's room late into the night.

 

Although she slowly warms up to the veritable stranger that is her father, Roxy remains, primarily, a mama's girl. Even if she was incapacitated by grief for much of the time she was the primary caretaker of her children, Rose didn't entirely abandon them. Especially as Roxy got older, Rose came to try her hardest not to miss as much of her children's lives as her physically absent husband. Roxy is so close to her mother that her every interest is in emulation of Rose's: her fascination with fantasy, her love of cats, and her desire to learn magic all stem from regular activities shared with and observed in her mother before Dave came home.

 

Roxy loves Dave, of course, but she wants to _be_ Rose. Dirk, on the other hand, is curiously distant from Rose, sticking closely to his father. Unlike Roxy, he is slow to trust Rose's affections. He often pulls away from her attempts to bond with him, which fills Roxy with a mild resentment. She'd never turn down the chances to bond that Rose offers him, but he turns his nose up at their mother again and again. Although Rose never gives up, she isn't as enthusiastic in her attempts to make Dirk like her as Dave is with Roxy; she is careful, calculated, coaxing him with books and praise, emotional support, understanding.

 

And so, with war replaced by reconstruction efforts, Dave and Rose find themselves working hard by day to restore the kingdom, and returning home in the evening and night to work on restoring their emotional connections with their children.

 

“Mom and Dad are weird,” Roxy says to Dirk one day.

 

He glances over at where she's stopped scribbling in her notebook. Her letters are huge, scrawling, but he avoids reading them out of politeness. “Yeah,” he says.

 

“You know what I mean, right? They're acting weird. And it's weird.” She crosses out a sentence. “I don't like it.”

 

Dirk thinks about it, placing a thumb in his book before he closes it to save his place. “Their attempts to bond with us are coming across really artificial, not to mention desperate. It's nice that they care so much about us, but it's kind of embarrassing sometimes, how intense they get.”

 

“It doesn't feel right.”

 

“Yeah. It feels out of character for them, almost.”

 

“I like Dad's stories,” Roxy says, tapping her pencil against the paper. “But sometimes I think if I'm not excited enough about hanging out with him he'll get super sad. So then it's hard to have fun when we do stuff together.”

 

“He's really wants to please you, which makes you really want to please him by convincing him he's pleased you.”

 

“Yeah, it's a mess.” She sighs. “I wish he'd _relax_ already. I'm not going to, like, hate him or anything, if he's not perfect.” He may be her estranged father, but he's still her father. He gets special messing-up privileges that other people don't.

 

Roxy looks at her paper, studying the blocky words she has written without actually seeing them. “...I still like Mom better. Which makes me feel bad. You're not supposed to have a favorite parent. You're supposed to love everybody the exact same.”

 

She looks to her brother, and he is silent. Not because he won't answer, but because he's thinking.

 

“...I feel the same way,” he says, finally. “Well. I mean, Dave is my favorite, and I feel bad that I have a favorite at all. I know I'm hurting Rose's feelings, but... I don't know. It's not like I don't love her. I just like Dave's company better. I guess I just keep thinking how she kind of just let Nepeta raise us for all those years, and then suddenly she decided she wanted to be in our lives again. She just suddenly stopped drinking as much, which I'm glad about, but I still feel weird about it. Like... she stopped caring before, so what if she does again?”

 

Roxy's eyes feel as if they are bulging. “But she's our mom! You know she loves us!”

 

Dirk hesitates. “I know. I know I should be happy she wants to be with us and I should be happy that she's sorry, but it just... I don't know, maybe it's because of how old I was when she kind of abandoned us, but I really needed her and she wasn't _there_. And, like, she _shows_ that's she's sorry, but she never _said_ she was sorry.”

 

“Dirk...”

 

Roxy crawls over to where her brother is trying to hide the fact that he's tearing up, his head bowed so that shadow falls across his reddening eyes, and his face fixed into a scowl to try and transform his sadness into a stronger emotion. Perhaps he's trying to be stoic, perhaps he's trying to seem angry. Either way, Roxy is careful not to call attention to his tears; she remembers times when she cried, when people's sympathy only made her want to sob harder.

 

She rests her head on his shoulder instead, and thinks of what she can say to cheer him up. “I'm glad Dad's home. Even if I feel like I didn't know him before, I'm getting to know him now. And ever since he got back, you and Mom are happier, and seeing you two happy makes me happy, too!” He fists his face and turns away. Maybe sentimental isn't the best approach... “Hey, Dirk, I'm going to read you some _Wizardy Herbert_ , okay?! And you have to tell me if it's good or not!”

 

She scrambles back over to her notebook. Normally, she doesn't like to share her writing. She's self-conscious of it. But she really wants to cheer Dirk up, and besides, she knows he won't hurt her feelings. She can trust him with this vulnerable part of herself, because he trusts her with the same.

 

“Don't make fun of me, okay?!” She says, brandishing the pink notebook. “You can only give good criticism! No flames allowed!”

 

Dirk jerks his head in affirmation and makes an effort to smile, and manages it for at least for a split second. That's good. Roxy turns her full attention to the pages, careful to focus on reading and to not look at her brother's face. That way he has time to compose himself without worrying about looking stupid.

 

Within minutes, he's snorting at what she's written, occasionally chiming in with some retort or idea. “Hey! Hold your sass until I'm done, Dirk!!”

 

She adores him. He's the best older brother she could ever ask for. And so, she feels obligated to comfort him just as he's comforted her. Dirk tells her he can hear a little of both of their parents in her work – it's a little of Rose in the plot, a lot of Dave in her writing style. Roxy swells with pride whenever Dirk laughs – she's funny, he says. Really funny.

 

→

 

Years later, Roxy and her brother still belong to an extremely insulated world, and rarely step foot outside of it. Much of their time is spent in each other and their parent's company; when they leave the tower, they remain on its grounds. It is where they have lessons, it is where they play. They don't have friends their own age. They barely associate with the rest of the royal court, let alone leave the palace.

 

It is with great excitement that, shortly after she turns eleven, Roxy goes with her mother to the city markets. She marvels at the high, violet buildings, the crowds of people with a menagerie of skin tones and accents and clothing. Curiously, although she always thought of the palace as being diverse, there are _so_ many more trolls in the city than she ever could have imagined. They work at every stall and in every store, they wipe windows, they serve food, and they direct traffic. They almost seem to outnumber the carapaces and definitely outnumber the humans, of whom she sees very few.

 

“It's easier to move to Derse than it is to move to Prospit,” Rose says without prompting, reading the wonder on her child's face. “Government officials neglect to look for papers, or... if they remember to check them, they are easily persuaded not to. And we have a lot more fishing and boating towns, so there are more places into which people can get into Derse. Considering Alternia is now defunct and its people desperately need a place to stay, Derse is often the more convenient choice.”

 

They stop in a large group on the side of the road to wait for traffic to clear up. Roxy sees a carapace man cringe and step aside when a troll walks up and stands too close to him.

 

Her mother takes her to a dark and bizarrely decorated shop for magic supplies. Roxy is both entranced and disappointed to finally be in a real magic shop: there is only one ancient tome to be seen, and it seems to be just for show. The bottles containing cloudy liquids – potions, presumably – are all small and badly shaped, as if the person who made them was not terribly good at blowing glass. It is badly lit, not as if the shopkeeper is trying to set a mood, but rather as if she forgot to pay her bills. (What kind of magic shop couldn't even keep itself lit by magical energy?)

 

Roxy complains to her mother in a loud stage whisper, and Rose frowns in return. “Don't be rude, Roxy. Just because it isn't glamorous doesn't mean it's not real magic.” She's talking to Roxy, and yet now, she starts to speak in the direction of the shopkeep. “This is the only place I trust to get my ingredients because the proprietor cares more about the quality of the material than she does the quality of the presentation.”

 

Still, Roxy pouts at the lack of glitz, the lack of randomly glowing items. She says to her mother, “I just pictured it being shinier! You know?”

 

Her mother snorts. “This shop specializes in the grimdark. Of course nothing's going to glow.” With this in mind, the oppressive darkness of the room makes more sense to Roxy; it isn't just badly lit in here, darkness is literally _emanating_ from the wares _._ This realization renews Roxy's interest somewhat, and she manages to busy herself counting these mysteriously dark items while her mother pays for the ingredients she came for.

 

And then she spots it. “Mommy? This thing's glowing!”

 

Sitting on a dusty pillow on a crowded shelf is an orb. Looking at it, Roxy cannot tell if it is white and glowing, or if the light from within it is what makes it look white; perhaps it is clear, just with such a powerful orb of light within that it seems opaque.

 

The shopkeeper looks up. “That? Oh, yes, my nephew pawned that off on me.” She leans towards Rose, chuckling. “He was in need of money, and I'm the only magic user he knows. So even though it's the white stuff, I figured I'd cut the boy a break and loan him the money.”

 

“What _is_ it?” Roxy reaches out to touch the object. She listens to her mother's warnings to be careful. She cradles the orb in her palms, and it glows softly, as if to tell her it's pleased. It's almost as if the thing is made of pure energy, and the way it thrums... It almost feels as if it has life. She is utterly entranced by it.

 

The shopkeeper says she has no idea what the orb is, and shrugs. “No matter what magic I perform on it, no matter how I touch it, it won't do anything. That's the problem with white magic,” she rants, “those light magic users, they cut out the theory, the foundational spellcasting structure and focus entirely on the impulse part of it. The whole _point_ of grimdark's spell language and linguistic equations is to make it so you can, y'now, decode whatever magic comes to you, no matter if you've seen it before, because it follows _rules,_ a... a language! But the white stuff, no, that's always a rotten, cryptic mess. Naturally, my nephew has no answers for me. If you want to be honest,” she says, lowering her voice, “I think the prat _stole_ it. In any case, without the help of a white magic user, I likely won't be able to figure out what it's for.”

 

The two adult women watch Roxy roll the orb around in her palms for a few moments more. “I wouldn't charge you too much for it,” the shopkeeper assures Rose, smiling at the sight of one so young enthralled with magic. Rose sighs.

 

“Perhaps another time. Come on now, Roxy, let's go.”

 

Reluctantly, the little girl places the fantastic thing back on the darkened shelf where she found it, and follows her mother out of the shop.

 

They're halfway down the street crowded with trolls when Roxy calls out. “Nepeta!”

 

“Oh, Roxy,” Rose sighs, not paying attention to where her daughter is looking, “I really should have talked to you about this before we left, but you mustn’t say that trolls...” She looks down the street, to where her daughter is pointing. She starts. “Oh – Nepeta!”

 

Several feet away, clutching a shopping bag in one hand, waving at them with the other, is Nepeta Leijon. The adult women greet each other happily, and Nepeta affectionately leans down to ruffle Roxy's hair. “Look at you!” she purrs. “You've gotten so big! I feel like I haven't seen you in fur-ever!”

 

“You really haven't,” Rose says with an awkward cough. She tries to cover up with a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Really, are you all right? I've been trying to contact you; even though we're a two-parent family again, we're both still working, and could really use the help watching over the kids.”

 

Roxy frowns. Dirk is fourteen. And she's eleven! They don't need a nanny anymore. “Mom, Nepeta doesn't have to babysit us!” Rose is about to hush her for being rude, but Roxy plows on. She tells the troll woman, “You should come over for a play date!” She hops up and down with excitement at the thought.

 

Nepeta laughs heartily at this. “Oh, Roxy, I would love to, I really would!” Her laughter begins to subside, her smile slowly falling into a weak grimace. “It's just...”

 

“Is something wrong?” Rose asks when she trails off. She lowers her voice. “Would you rather we discuss this someplace else...?”

 

Nepeta blushes a warm green color and bites her lip. “Oh, Rose, I'm so sorry! I really can't help. I love Roxy and Dirk a whole bunch, but... But Equius...”

 

Isn't that Dirk's riding coach? Roxy looks at her mother's face for confirmation. The older woman's expression is extremely serious.

 

“Your moirail?” Rose questions. “Is he not letting you nanny anymore? Why ever not?”

 

Nepeta fidgets. Rose reaches for her hand. “Is he getting too controlling, Nepeta? Because if it's... a very personal situation, I want you to know that Dave and I are both willing to help, and to give you a place to get away, even, if you need it...”

 

“Oh my gosh!” Nepeta shakes her head rapidly, waving her hand in tandem to show Rose that whatever she is insinuating is _not_ the case. “Yes, Equius is a little controlling, but that isn't the problem! I can get around him fine when I need to, but... Well, He's just nervous about me working in the palace. He's been hearing things. He's even thinking of resigning from his job in the stables, and you know how much he adores hoofbeasts!”

 

Rose's frown deepens. “Why in the world is he wary of the palace?”

 

Nepeta tilts her head, looking at her curiously. “...It's been really hostile in Derse lately, Rose. Even for those of us who have lived here for a long time, and those of us with midblood.”

 

“But... you know _we_ care about you.”

 

“You don't represent all the Dersites, Rose,” Nepeta sighs. “You definitely don't speak for all those people in the castle!”

 

Rose looks astounded. Nepeta doesn't bother to soothe her, instead looking around the street. “I'm sorry, Rose, but I have a lot to get done today, and you're right: I'd rather not talk about such heavy stuff in the middle of the street! I promise I'll visit the kids sometime soon, okay?”

 

She and Rose exchange polite kisses to the air next to each others' cheeks. Nepeta leans down again to Roxy to kiss her hand in a mock-princely fashion, to which the little girl smiles and crows endless, affectionate good-byes. The troll woman waves to them the whole way down the street as she goes. Never once does Rose's perplexed frown wane.

 

→

 

It's the middle of the night, and it's dark, but her dad is sitting in the kitchen. At first she is gripped with fear at seeing another figure awake in the house at all at this hour. Then she is afraid he'll be angry with her, that he'll send her back to bed.

 

He glances over at her and registers no surprise, as if there's nothing abnormal about a kid being up so late into the night. “Hey,” he says, bizarrely casual.

 

She shuffles her feet. His lack of anger or admonishment tempts her to stay, to get a glass of water like she planned. But at the same time, she feels as if she has walked in on something private. His eyes are always red, but she can't be too sure, right now.

 

“Hi,” she says back. “Are you going to yell at me?”

 

His eyebrows bunch together. They're thick, dark, look strange with his light hair. And then he realizes, and he's saying, “Oh. Oh, no, Rox, it's fine. I'm not going to be mad you can't sleep, you can't help that.” He gestures to a chair. “You can hang here, if you want. We can be insomniacs together.”

 

She hesitates. She didn't plan on staying, but she doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Eventually, she steps forward, and she heads for the cupboard. She gets a glass, fills it with water, and she stands by the sink for a few sips, pondering.

 

Eventually, she decides to settle with her glass in a chair across from him. He smiles weakly at her. “How's school?”

 

“Good,” Roxy says.

 

“Is Mom a good teacher?”

 

“Yeah. I miss Nepeta, though.”

 

He doesn't seem to realize what a jump in subject this is. “Yeah. I haven't seen her much since I got back. She okay?”

 

Roxy shrugs, staring into her glass of water. “We saw her in the city today, and she only talked to us for a couple of minutes. She said she'll visit us.”

 

“That'll be nice.”

 

They fall awkwardly silent. Then, “Mom says you're getting tutored in magic by Feferi. You getting the hang of it yet?”

 

Roxy lets out the sort of breathy sigh only world-weary adults tend to emit. “I'm not as good as Mom.”

 

Dave chuckles at that. “Your mom's been doing magic for longer than you. You'll get better as you get older, don't worry about it.”

 

Roxy scowls. “I have to wait to be grown up for everything. It's so annoying!”

 

Dave chuckles again. Eventually, though, he grows solemn. “Is your brother... Was your brother taking swordsmanship with anyone? While I was gone?”

 

Roxy shrugs. “Yeah, I think.”

 

He hesitates. “Who with?”

 

“I don't know. Some guy. He says he prefers you, anyway.”

 

They fall silent again. Roxy takes a sip of her water. She wonders if she finishes it, if she'll be excused.

 

“Why are you awake?” she asks.

 

Dave shrugs. “Bad dreams.”

 

She is genuinely surprised. “Really? You can get those when you're that old?”

 

He laughs at her choice of words. “Yeah. Oh, yeah, you definitely can.”

 

She thinks he must be trying very hard not to wake anyone else up. He's usually much more talkative than this. He usually tries harder to make her laugh. She watches as his fingers idly scratch the wood of the table. He doesn't even seem to realize that he's doing it.

 

Roxy turns her head at the sound of footsteps. “Dave. I woke up and I was wondering where you were...”

 

Rose stands in the kitchen doorway in a dark purple robe. A look of surprise registers on her face at the sight of her daughter. “Roxy? What are you doing up?”

 

“I wanted a glass of water,” she says, wilting.

 

Rose turns to Dave. “Why didn't you send her to bed?”

 

He shrugs. “She's not hurting anybody. She just can't sleep.”

 

Rose sighs. “Roxy, go to bed. You have early lessons with Feferi tomorrow, you know that. You can take your glass to bed.”

 

Roxy shoots a glance at her dad. He shrugs; he won't fight for her, not this late, not over something so trivial. But then, that's not what Roxy is asking of him. She gets down from her chair and wraps her arms around him, careful not to upset her glass of water as she hugs him. He returns the embrace eagerly, holding her tight, tentative to let her go when she starts to pull away.

 

She kisses her mother on the way out. “Good night.”

 

She is about to enter her room before she turns back to look at her parents. She glances down the dark hall into the kitchen. Her mother is pulling up a chair next to her dad. Dave's head is hanging low. Rose puts an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him into a gentle embrace.

 

Roxy hopes her nightmares do not persist so vividly and terribly into her adulthood. She slips into her room feeling as though she's seen something she's not supposed to.

 

→

 

“I don't know, I just feel like we should be able to vote on things like that.”

 

Rose sighs loudly. “Dave. Stop.”

 

“What?” He stretches his arms out in askance. “All I'm saying is, the people need more say in their government!”

 

“The queen is good to us, Dave. She's the best thing to ever happen to this country.” Rose is moving around the kitchen while she talks, preparing what few recipes she knows. Meanwhile Dave is slowly going about dusting the living room just a few feet away in their small, tower apartment. Dirk is wiping down the windows, and Roxy, at eleven, is young enough to be exempt from chores. She plays with several small, stuffed cats instead, pretending to make them go on adventures on the kitchen table while she eavesdrops on her parents, trying to make sense of their political argument.

 

Dave sighs. “Yeah, Rose, I'm not saying she's terrible, but you can't trust that her predecessor isn't going to be! You can't trust a monarchy. We should be choosing our own leaders.”

 

“Dave, we only _just_ got out of a war.”

 

She marches to the icebox. Roxy can sense fury in her step. Dave scowls across the room at her.

 

“I was talking to the mayor...”

 

“The 'mayor' isn't the only one who thinks our government needs reform,” Rose cuts in before he can finish. “Highbloods are still furious about what they call the 'Carapace War.' If the queen is weak, even for a moment, men like the mayor aren't the ones who are going to take power. You know how vicious Alternians can be.”

 

Dave lazily runs a rag over a dusty coffee table. “...The highbloods are still mad? But the war they were always complaining about is over...”

 

Rose gives an exasperated sigh. “Dave. Of _course_ they're still angry. Don't you know what Lolar has done for Derse? The highbloods, the sea-dwellers, they don't _own_ Derse's economy anymore, they don't _own_ labor. And the queen has been abolishing tax breaks – they're furious at her because she won't privilege them over everyone else like their old empress, and now that Alternia has been dead long enough, they're getting restless for someplace where they can reign again as the infallible upper-classes!”

 

She takes a large breath. Dave whistles. “That's quite a rant.”

 

Violet irises roll towards the ceiling. “Nepeta will be here soon, I don't want to talk about politics in front of her.”

 

“You mean you don't want to rant about Alternians in front of an Alternian, right?”

 

Rose shoots him a severe look that stills him. Roxy and Dirk fall silent and still, too, waiting to see what their mother will say. It is rare that she ever takes on such a quietly angry authority, but when she does, they all listen.

 

“Drop it,” Rose says, and at that moment, a knock sounds at the door.

 

→

 

With Nepeta there, with all of them, it feels like a family reunion.

 

There's a lot of cheek-kissing from the adults, and tight, breath-constricting hugs from Nepeta to everyone else. Roxy and Dirk sit at the table with the adults and join in on the conversation. Rose and Dave are careful to stay away from politics. Nepeta is sure to make sure the subject matter is broad enough so they can easily keep Dirk and Roxy included.

 

“...just feeling a bit paranoid. He'll be back at the stables full-time soon, I'm sure. He loves his work, he'd never abandon it without making a big announcement and apologizing loads first!”

 

Dirk snorts between bites of casserole. It's not terrible. He's just glad Nepeta brought drinks instead of food, though; he's not sure he could stomach Rose's _and_ Nepeta's cooking all in one night. “Good. I hope he's back soon, I'm getting sick of being alone with Cronus. He's such a _jerk_.”

 

Nepeta titters. “Eridan always was, so I'm not surprised he is, too.”

 

“What, you can't handle him?” Dave says. “Just say the word, I'll beat his ass.”

 

“He's eighteen, you'll be arrested,” Rose says breezily, sipping her wine. “Or whatever that is in sweeps.”

 

“It doesn't matter. He goes by human years,” Dirk says, rolling his eyes. “Such a poser...”

 

“I feel bad for him.” Roxy mashes her peas into a pulp. Maybe if she flattens them, she can hide them under her plate... “He says he wants to be a human, but he could never look like one. Even if he put lots of makeup on, his horns are real big and he's got those super purple fins...”

 

Dirk and the adults at the table silently regard this idea.

 

“...I don't think he's all that serious about it, Rox,” Dirk says after a beat, “I mean, he doesn't even get little details right...”

 

“I dunno. He seems pretty serious. It's all he ever talks about. He doesn't even use funny troll words. He just uses regular words.”

 

“Honey, don't call humans regular. Nepeta, I'm sorry.”

 

“She's just a wiggler.” Nepeta laughs at herself. “No – she's just a kid. She doesn't know better.”

 

“I'm _saying_ ,” Roxy speaks up, determined not to be talked over, “is that even though Cronus is a big fat jerk, he's sad! If you're gonna make fun of him, don't make fun of the stuff he's sad over.”

 

Dirk shrugs. Rose gives her daughter a small, approving smile. Roxy feels warm with pride.

 

→

 

Nepeta insists she help clean up dinner, and washes plates while Rose dries and Dave puts them away.

 

“I'm surprised neither of you brought up politics the whole time I've been here,” Nepeta laughs, scrubbing a fork. “That's got to be a record, eh?”

 

Dave snorts in agreement where he leans nearby, waiting for Rose to finish drying a pan so he can put it away. Rose smiles at Nepeta, replying, “We wanted this to be a nice, peaceful dinner amongst family. And that meant no politics.”

 

“Oh, maybe it wouldn't be peaceful, but I'm sure the dinner wouldn't have been ruined! I actually really like hearing you two talk; you're so passionate!” Nepeta hands several dripping items of silverware over to Rose. “Funny enough, I even have something to contribute...”

 

She glances towards the window. From where Roxy is watching them on the couch, her head on her brother's shoulder, she almost thinks Nepeta's making sure no one is watching or listening. Which is absurd, of course. Their apartment is very high off the ground. No one could ever be listening in on them...

 

“What's wrong, Nepeta?” Dirk asks, suddenly. The troll woman has drifted into an uncharacteristically solemn silence.

 

She snaps out of her trance, looking at all of the Strider family in turn. She smiles, nervously. “See. I want to tell you something very important. Because I love you guys. But you can't repeat this! And if you absolutely have to tell someone else, you can't say how you know this.”

 

She picks up another plate and starts washing. “Her Imperious Condescension is alive. And she is here.”

 

“Oh my god,” Rose gasps. Dave looks as if Nepeta just struck him. “Are you freaking kidding? How the hell is she alive? Hasn't she been missing for over a year?”

 

Nepeta shrugs. “I don't know how she survived. I just know that she's seeking asylum here. In the capital.”

 

“In the _capital?_ ” Rose covers her mouth with her hand. “How did she get here without...?”

 

She trails off. Nepeta purses her lips. “Nepeta. How do you know all of this?”

 

The troll woman sighs. “...It's Equius.” Roxy's parents sigh, groan. This revelation, although a terrible one, doesn't seem to be a surprise to them. “He's involved with all of those... reactionaries. A bunch of them-”

 

“Of who?”

 

“Highbloods! Sea-dwellers and blue bloods, a bunch of them helped smuggle her in.”

 

“They want to install her on the throne, don't they?” Dave asks, scowling. To everyone's dismay, Nepeta nods. Rose just keeps clutching her mouth. Dave curses softly. Roxy is upset because her parents are upset; she looks to Dirk in askance, but he offers little in way of explanation. He's just staring at Nepeta, waiting for her to go on.

 

“I wanted to tell you,” Nepeta says, “because I care so much about you all, and I want you to be ready, if anything bad should happen.”

 

Dave has begun to pace the room. Rose lowers her hand. “...Are you telling us we need to run, Nepeta?”

 

“I'm telling you to be safe.”

 

Dave halts, turns to look on her with blazing eyes. “No – Nepeta, just how much do you know? Should we run? Should we tell the queen?”

 

Nepeta's eyes bulge. “Don't tell the queen! I don't know anything for sure, I swear! I only know what everyone knows, that the highbloods are angry!”

 

“No – no, you know more than everyone knows, I mean, you know that the former dictator of Alternia is in our country, and you know that people helped her to get here!”

 

“But that's _all_ I know,” Nepeta insists. “Equius lets his guard down around me, but not that much!” Tears, tinged with green, spring to her eyes. “I keep telling him that what he's involved in is dangerous, but he won't stop! You know how much stock he puts into that old caste system! Even after living in Derse for all this time...”

 

Dave rakes his hands wildly through his hair. Rose is shaking her head. They're physically rejecting this information. They want nothing to do with the reality of things.

 

Roxy is starting to panic, seeing her parents like this. “What's wrong? Mom?”

 

Her mother looks at her as if she had forgotten about her. After a tick, she points towards the bedrooms. “Kiss Nepeta good night. The adults need to talk.”

 

Her brother, slumped on the sofa, bolts to his feet at this order. “Mom, it's only seven!” he protests.

 

“Dirk.” Her tone is one of warning. He challenges it, scowling at her.

 

“This is our country too, Mom. We're old enough for this conversation, we should be included!”

 

“ _Dirk._ ” She jabs her finger towards the bedroom again. “ _Please_.” Upon seeing his expression refuse to wane, she sighs, taking the hand that was pointing towards their bedrooms and raking it down her face. “We will talk to you two about this tomorrow. We promise, we promise, now please. _Please_ go to bed.”

 

He glares at her a moment more before stomping towards their shared room. Roxy follows him quickly, but not closely, afraid both of her mother's wrath and his.

 

Soon after their door closes behind them, Dirk smashes his ear up against it. He listens for about five minutes before he curses – much to Roxy's horror – and stomps toward his bed. “They left! Or they went to Mom and Dad's room, or they're whispering – either way, they don't want us to listen.”

 

Roxy sits pretzel-style on her own bed across from his, bunching her hands in the star-patterned sheets. “What's wrong, Dirk? What'd Equius do?”

 

He turns away from the door with a troubled frown. “He helped a really bad person into Derse.”

 

Roxy gasps. “A criminal?! Equius did that?” She thinks of the hulking, yet bizarrely prim and gentle man. She can't imagine him doing something illegal, not when he's always so strict about such stupid little rules.

 

Dirk is scowling; not at her, she realizes, but at the mention of Equius. “I hate to tell you, Roxy, but Equius is a big, fat racist. He's nice to us because we're nobility, even if we're humans. But he says the meanest stuff about lower class people, especially trolls with warmer blood colors. And he didn't just let a criminal in – he let in a woman who killed tons and tons of warm-blooded trolls.”

 

Roxy gapes. She can hardly believe that someone she knows – someone _Nepeta_ loves! – would do something so bad. “Well if she kills people, she should go to jail! Mom and Dad have to tell the queen!” Then, at seeing her brother's facial expression, “...They're going to tell her, Dirk! I know they will!”

 

Her brother looks doubtful. It's starting to scare her. Why would her parents ever do anything other than what is the right thing to do? “Dirk...”

 

He gets up without looking at her and crawls into bed. Roxy frowns. “It's only seven...”

 

“I don't care.”

 

“Dirk...”

 

“You can play with the light on, if you want. But I don't feel like doing anything. I just want it to be tomorrow, so Mom and Dad will be honest with us.”

 

Roxy stares at her bother's back. The covers are pulled up so high that she can tell he's trying to hide his face.


	4. Act 1, Part 3: The Fall of the Black Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the fic summary because honest to god, Something Rotten is Roxy's story. There are times when her needs and interests will be pushed aside for others' (because, like Pound of Flesh, Something Rotten is about autonomy and control within a narrative), but ultimately, *Roxy* is the protagonist, we see this story through *her* eyes, and we follow *her* growth from child to a mature and powerful young woman.

Act One: Reign of the Black Queen

Part Three: The Fall of the Black Queen

* * *

 

Months ago, Dirk said Cronus Ampora was an asshole and an idiot. He said the Alternian boy was a braggart with little talent to actually speak for, and a raging racist with a tendency for appropriating human culture without any idea of what the things he borrowed and fetishized meant.

 

Most of Dirk's rants about his fellow riding student left Roxy reeling, too overwhelmed to ask what any of those words meant. From Dirk's tone, she figured it all must be bad, and so she let her older brother vent to her without interruption. Once, she decided she'd ask her mother what some of the words Dirk was using in his rants against Cronus meant. Rose, instead of being horrified that her eleven-year-old wanted to know what a fetish was, laughed until tears came to her eyes. Needless to say, Roxy didn't ask her for help interpreting Dirk again.

 

Now, in this cold February, Dirk seems to have forgotten his vendetta against the older boy. Roxy has come from lessons at Feferi's – which were an utter disaster – and is planning to walk home with her older brother because it is convenient and because she needs someone to confide in. She's afraid she's never going to take after her mom, that she has no propensity for magic. But when she gets to the edge of the field, she sees her brother and Cronus standing by the stables together, and her desire to loudly call out to her brother recoils within her.

 

The Alternian boy has one arm on the stable wall and is leaning towards Dirk with a cheesy-looking smile. He is probably bragging, judging by the look on his face. Her brother has his arms crossed, but, curiously, he isn't rolling his eyes or looking like he'd rather be somewhere else. His head is tilted in interest, and every-so-often he smiles or laughs, if lightly. Cronus seems to be all the more encouraged by these little reactions, his swelling ego reflected in his grand gestures and painstakingly casual posture. At one point, Cronus makes a comment that prompts Dirk to cover his mouth – a habit he shares with their mother, which implies they cannot contain their laughter, and so have resorted to trying to physically stifle it.

 

Roxy really wants to interrupt. She gets as close to the fence as she can, going so far as to hitch her feet in the bottom rungs, and she calls out to her brother: “Hey, Dirk!! Stop talking to your _boyfriend_ and let's go home!”

 

To her horror, Dirk is not in the least bit embarrassed by this comment. He _laughs,_ and it prompts Cronus to laugh, and suddenly she's mad because the biggest jerk she knows is laughing at her.

 

Still, Dirk bids the other boy goodbye and heads for where his sister stands, waiting. Roxy watches Cronus watch Dirk the entire walk over. She turns her back to him when Dirk catches up and they start the trek for the palace, and she wonders if he's _still_ watching.

 

An awkward silence hangs over them. Well; over Roxy. Dirk seems to be drifting, in too good a mood to notice her discomfort.

 

She's dying to know. “Sooo! Big bro! Why are you and Cronus so chummy suddenly?”

 

He feigns ignorance. “Are we 'chummier' than usual? I didn't notice.”

 

She frowns. “Really? 'Cause usually you go on and on and oooon about how much you hate him, and today you two were chatting it up like you were best friends or something.”

 

He shrugs. “You're the one who defends him. You should be glad we're getting along.”

 

She told Dirk _once_ not to make fun of Cronus's personal issues, and now everybody acts like she's his warrior-keeper, fighting in defense of his honor. She doesn't even _like_ Cronus, she just thinks it's crappy when people hit below the belt. “Whatever, Dirk. A little while ago you were whining that Cronus Ampora is the worst person you know, and now you're pretending like you don't even have a problem with him.”

 

Dirk shrugs again, infuriatingly nonchalant. “People change their minds.”

 

They don't talk for the rest of the way home. Roxy feels as if he's purposefully cheated her; she needed someone to talk to, and now he's too preoccupied daydreaming about some boy to spare her a second thought. She wonders where Nepeta has gotten to lately, and immediately feels sad; the number of people she can confide in seems to be drastically declining.

 

→

 

Rose is barely in the door when her son asks the question. “Have they got her yet, Mom?”

 

Rose lowers her things onto the counter, raising her eyebrows as she does so. “Eager as usual, Dirk. No, they haven't managed to get her yet.”

 

Dirk visibly deflates. Roxy sighs. Her brother is too involved with politics for his own good. “What's the hold-up, Mom? How the heck is a murderer like her even allowed to just run around?” Dirk asks. It grates on Roxy's nerves when he calls their mom Mom instead of Rose. It feels like he's sucking up to her or something. It's just so unlike him, so insincere.

 

“I've told you before, Dirk. Derse has a history of harboring war criminals.” She winds her scarf around a chair. The house is getting cluttered, with all four of them so terrible at putting things back where they belong.

 

Dirk scowls. “That's a terrible excuse. I thought you said the queen was going to 'take care of it.'”

 

Rose sighs. “International laws are tricky, Dirk. Even if the empress's country no longer exists, she still isn't a citizen of Derse.”

 

“What about an assassination?”

 

Rose pauses in her ministrations. “...If such a thing were to happen – which, as I've told you, Mister, is totally illegal, and not something the Black Queen is going to openly admit to attempting – the Condesce has friends. Many friends who are swarming her flat and making sure it is impossible for anyone to get near her with ill intentions. Were such an assassination to be attempted – which, as far as you know, it _hasn't –_ agents sent to kill her would already be dead.”

 

Roxy scrunches up her nose. “Why don't you just admit they're trying, though? We're alone here. Nobody's gonna hear you, Mom.”

 

Rose looks at her wearily. “Because. If we happened to not be alone, as I've made clear...”

 

“It's illegal,” Dirk and Roxy say in time. “We'd be dead.” Their mother looks at them in surprise for a moment before wilting, too tired to carry on this conversation. She's had it with them a million times already, it seems, over the course of the year.

 

“Yes,” Rose says. “Now please, if you're going to entertain yourselves in the main room, please do it quietly. I'm going to sleep for a while. Wake me up in an hour, Dirk. Dirk – did you hear me?”

 

“Yes,” he calls after her already retreating form.

 

“The queen has totally killed Nepeta,” Roxy says, when they hear their mother's bedroom door shut. “That's why we haven't heard from her in ages.”

 

“No she hasn't,” Dirk shoots back. “Mom and Dad didn't tell the queen where they got the tip on the Condesce. If anything, Nepeta was killed by highbloods for revealing their secret.”

 

“Maybe the queen tortured our parents to confess,” Roxy says, stretching her stuffed cat's legs into unholy positions. Its black, button eyes plead with her.

 

“Come on, Roxy, we'd know if our own parents had been tortured.” He watches her with her cat, wistfully swiping his finger along the sofa and watching the suede leave light marks where he touches. With a swipe of his palm, the zigzagging designs have disappeared.

 

“...Wherever she is, I hope she's okay.” Roxy starts to feel guilty. She's been literally entertaining these thoughts – and with a humorous, matter-of-fact tone. She doesn't want to laugh at the thought of Nepeta dying, especially if it turns out to be true. But it's hard to take such scary things seriously.

 

“We're probably overreacting,” she says, hoping to erase everything she's just said with the swipe of a single sentence.

 

“Our dad killed people for a lake,” Dirk replies, dashing those hopes. “We're not overreacting by assuming someone who told political secrets is dead.”

 

He isn't smug when he says it. He sounds disappointed in himself, and in this world, for constantly proving him right.

 

→

 

Feferi's hive, located on the outskirts of the castle property, is always stuffy and damp. This is likely due to the fact it's located right next door to a wretched swamp. Between her home, her insistence on outdated, traditional robes and pointed hat, and the gigantic, iron cauldron in the center of the room, Feferi looks like the sort of witch popularly featured in children's stories. She smiles at Roxy, and her myriads of wrinkles give it all the more life. Every change in expression makes a drastic mark on her face.

 

Roxy adores Feferi's face. She's known it almost as long as she's known her own mother's, and definitely as long as she's known Nepeta's. If Nepeta is a fun aunt, than Feferi is like a surrogate grandmother.

 

She guides Roxy through the day's lesson, never harsh on the girl if she slips up. Occasionally, she'll soften the girl's bruising pride by saying, “Your mom struggled with this at your age, too,” and always will offer a gentle touch on the shoulder or a full embrace, should Roxy be in need of such.

 

Today, in the face of worried thoughts about Nepeta, Roxy performs even worse than usual. At one point, she is slated to make an apple levitate... but, as she's running through verbal equations in the Old Language under her breath, her mind veers off subject, and the apple explodes in a dark, frothing fury. Neither she nor Feferi is injured, but Feferi realizes right away that something is wrong.

 

Roxy snorts. “How could you even tell? I'm always terrible at magic. I'll never get the hang of it.”

 

“Oh, don't say that. You're so young, you have so much time to improve.” Feferi grunts as she sits down beside Roxy on a creaking wooden chair. “But I'm right, aren't I? You're upset. Magic can be at its most powerful when we are overcome with anger or sadness... but it also requires more concentration to control, which, understandably, we often do not have when we are upset.”

 

Roxy looks at the chunks of apple littering Feferi's floor. They are still smoking, dark magic rolling off the piles of gored apple like snakes, coiling and sneaking along the floor. Roxy sighs anxiously, rubbing her hands through her hair. “Nepeta's been missing. I'm really worried about her.”

 

Feferi chuckles. “Why, I'm sure you don't need to worry about her. She is just busy – what else could it be?”

 

Roxy wants desperately to confide in Feferi about all that she knows, about the troll empress, about Nepeta knowing, about her and Dirk's theory that she's being tortured right now. But her mom told her not to talk about it – not to anyone, and not even in private.

 

Feferi is looking very closely into Roxy's face. “...You know you can confide in me, right, dear?”

 

Roxy's lips purse. She's never had very strong resolve. Dirk's always the one with an iron lock on his lips. “...I think Nepeta's in trouble.”

 

“Why would she be in trouble?”

 

Roxy shakes her head. She is dying to elaborate, to let Feferi understand, but... “I'm not supposed to say!”

 

Feferi doesn't press her any further. Gently, she reaches out and puts her arm around Roxy's shoulders. The human girl leans into the touch. Her hut never smells nice, but Feferi always does. Like fine perfumes wafting over a foreign sea. “Your mother hasn't taken you to her home, to check up on her?”

 

“Mom never takes us that deep into the city. I can't go by myself, I don't know where Nepeta lives!”

 

Feferi smiles reassuringly at her. “How about if I try to get into contact with Nepeta and see if she's alright? And then the next time we talk, I can tell you how she is doing.”

 

Roxy nods, scrubbing at her eye. Feferi pets her hair gently. “Good?” Roxy nods again. “Good. Now, let's get to cleaning up this apple before I get ants.”

 

→

 

She marches back over the grounds, waving to her parents' friends and all of the other live-in and visiting nobility she recognizes. Despite all that has happened as of late, Roxy feels kind of good. It isn't as cold today as it's been, the late winter sun is peeking through the twilight smog that forever hangs over Derse, and confiding in Feferi has made her feel somewhat better about Nepeta's absence. Roxy plays with the ends of her striped scarf, considering taking it off, except that it's just so entertaining and she looks _super cool_ in it. Yes, she thinks, it's an okay day. Feferi is going to find Nepeta at home in her hive, and all of Roxy's worrying will have been for nothing.

 

Predictably, her day is ruined the moment she arrives at the stables.

 

Even from hundreds of feet away, Roxy can make out the fact that Cronus and Dirk are both on horseback. But for some reason, Dirk keeps falling behind the older boy. As she gets closer, Roxy sees that, when Cronus's back is turned, Dirk will occasionally tug his horse's reigns, or nudge its sides, expertly guiding his horse so that it... well, so that it tosses its head and shuffles its feet and misbehaves in general. He smiles apologetically as the older boy rides back towards him, calling out advice on how to calm it down.

 

Meanwhile, by the fences, Roxy fumes. She has to be seeing this wrong, but, no – Dirk's apologetic smile, and then the way he yanks the reigns the moment Cronus has turned himself around again... Dirk is purposefully making it look like he has no handle on his horse. Roxy doesn't understand why the hell he's doing it. She has a strong feeling it's supposed to make Cronus like him – maybe Dirk's usual riding prowess is intimidating? – but still, Roxy doesn't know why _her_ brother, her level-headed, prideful brother, is acting so ditzy for some jerk's attention.

 

She doesn't call out to her brother. She just watches him as he and Cronus finally return to the stables, and continues to stare at the building until they _finally_ come back out. She's sure her brother sees her, but he still took his damn time doing whatever he was doing inside. She hopes all he did was put his horse back, and maybe make some stupid conversation with Cronus. The thought of anything else makes her head spin.

 

Watching Dirk head towards her, waving and yelling clever quips to the troll boy for the entire walk to his sister, Roxy wishes Equius was back. He would never approve of this sort of canoodling during precious hoofbeast time.

 

“Dirk,” Roxy hisses the moment he is within earshot. “What the heck were you doing out there?!”

 

His eyes widen when she says it, but he tries to stifle his surprise with a cough and a forced frown. “What do you mean, what was I doing?”

 

“Your horse – you had literally no control! That's not like you at all!”

 

Dirk sighs, trying to seem exasperated. “I happened to pick a wild one today, that's...”

 

“Maplehoof is never wild!” Roxy cuts in. She points at him accusingly. “You were playing dumb so Cronus would pay attention to you!”

 

Dirk scowls back at her, but he seems to hesitate. To her surprise, he doesn't deny anything. “...Was it that obvious?”

 

“Not to Cronus, if that's what you're worried about,” she huffs.

 

He swings open one of the back entrances to the castle so swiftly that it catches her off guard, and he takes the chance to enter ahead of her and keep moving. Roxy regains her footing and follows him close behind, jogging down the hall to catch up with him.

 

“You're a better rider than he is, Dirk!”

 

He shrugs at this, refusing to stop walking or to turn and meet her eyes. “So?”

 

“ _So,_ it's stupid to act all helpless just so he'll pay attention to you!” She scowls at him when he won't reply. She walks a little faster so that she is in his line of sight. “If it's working, if he really does like you because of it, then that's all the more reason not to like him! If he doesn't like you the way you are, if he'd rather be friends with somebody who relies on him so much, then he doesn't deserve your time of day!”

 

“The time of day.”

 

“What?”

 

“The phrase is _the_ time of day, it isn't possessive.” He stops walking and, with her current velocity, Roxy nearly topples over when she stops with him. “Could we not argue in public? Could you wait until we're home at least before you embarrass me?”

 

She feels anger rush to her face, painting it red. “I'm not embarrassing you! You're embarrassing _yourself!_ You're the one who's trying to change to impress some dumb _jerk!_ ”

 

Dirk blushes in turn. “I'm not embarrassing myself! Why the heck do you even care? It's like... it's like you're _jealous_ or something.”

 

For some reason, this statement infuriates her more than anything else he's said. “Jealous?! Why would I be jealous?! You're so full of yourself – god, you're just like him, if you think I'd ever be jealous just because you're spending time with that idiot!” She doesn't even like Cronus – why would she be jealous of Dirk for winning his affections?

 

She storms away. She decides she just won't care if he wants to act like an idiot for some other idiot's approval. If Dirk doesn't want to listen to her, if he wants to put somebody else's feelings above hers – no – _his_ , then _fine._

 

Dirk enters their home five minutes after Roxy. She refuses to meet his gaze, sitting with her back to the front door on the sofa. She keeps ignoring him until she sees him walk past, rolling his eyes as he heads for their bedroom. He doesn't slam the door behind him. In fact, it seems Roxy is the only one bothered by their exchange.

 

No matter what she does, she feels upset. She wishes she had claimed the bedroom instead, because the items she left strewn around the living area the night before aren't doing much for her. She doesn't want to enter their bedroom and chance grabbing something else to play with, or her notebooks, because she doesn't want to see Dirk. Especially now that she's starting to think she overreacted. She doesn't want to have to look at him and admit she might've gone overboard, because she also doesn't want to say she was wrong when, at the core, she really did have a _point._ It's so dumb for Dirk to change for the worst just for one person's approval.

 

She opens the fridge a few times and is never particularly impressed by what she finds there. She's preparing to lower her standards and look again when her mother comes home. “You're early,” Roxy says with surprise, checking the clock.

 

Rose smiles back at her. “That's the glory of living in times of peace, my love.” She sets about winding her scarf around the back of a chair, and drapes her coat on another random chair. Roxy looks at the clothing thrown along the backs of their sofas and on every kitchen chair and thinks that their family needs to invest in a coatrack.

 

Eventually, Roxy and her mother settle onto the sofa together. Rose has her nose deep in a rather pretentious romance novel, and strokes Roxy's hair while her daughter leans against her. Roxy is contented to just lay and enjoy the sensation for about five minutes, but then she becomes restless.

 

“Mom?”

 

She has to repeat herself several times before Rose hears her beneath the thick fog of fiction. “Oh, I'm sorry, dear. What do you need?”

 

“Dirk's been acting funny lately.”

 

“Funny how?”

 

“He used to hate Cronus Ampora, but now he hangs out with him all of the time!”

 

Rose chuckles. “He has been talking about him a curious amount lately. Maybe they worked out whatever differences they had.”

 

Roxy scowls into her mother's shoulder. “Their differences were that Cronus is a _jerk_.”

 

“Well, maybe now he isn't.”

 

“Or maybe now Dirk _is_.” Roxy sighs miserably. “Today he was playing dumb for Cronus's attention. He's one of the best riders of all the kids in the castle, but he was letting _Cronus_ show _him_ how to handle his horse.” Rose does little more than hum at this information. Roxy looks up at her mother's face, incredulous that this information doesn't floor her. “Are you _listening?_ ”

 

“I am,” Rose says, her eyes back on her book. Her other hand continues to gently run through Roxy's hair. “I don't know what you want me to say.”

 

Roxy gives a huffy sigh. She doesn't know what she wants her mother to say, either. “He laughs at everything Cronus says, even when it's really dumb. It's like he's not even the same person anymore. I told him he was being stupid, but he didn't even care!”

 

Rose looks up from her book and glances down the hall, thoughtful. Roxy is about to give up confiding in her when she finally speaks. “People change, Roxy. It's not necessarily a bad thing. I know it troubles you that Dirk would put himself down to impress someone, but he's in a very... delicate stage of his life right now. Let him figure things out for himself. Dirk is a smart boy, he'll come around.”

 

“The wort part is Dirk said I was just jealous!” Roxy buries her face in her Mom's side. “But I'm not jealous! I'd never be jealous of him, having Cronus's attention!”

 

“Aaah,” her mother sighs. “I see how it is.” Finally, she puts her book down, spine up, on the sofa's arm. “While I agree that you might not be jealous of Dirk... you may very well be jealous of Cronus.”

 

Roxy frowns up at her mom, suddenly confused. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Maybe – just maybe – you feel left out because Dirk is spending so much time with someone else.” She reaches down to brush several strands of hair out of her daughter's bewildered face. “It's okay to feel a little jealous, Roxy. You and Dirk have always been very close. But he's getting older now, and he's going to want to have more...”

 

“Friends? But we have Nepeta, and... Well, we _had_ Nepeta, but he has me!”

 

Rose hesitates. “Yes, but... You see, Roxy, Dirk making friends outside of our family doesn't mean he's going to forget us. It just means that he's expanding his circle of friends. It's nice to have more than just one friend. Especially if they're your own age.”

 

“Cronus is four years older than Dirk! That's a whole year older than Dirk is to me!”

 

Rose sighs. “Sometimes it's nice to have older friends, too. And frankly, there are some things Cronus will understand about Dirk right now that you may not be old enough to.”

 

Roxy snorts. “What could he possibly know about Dirk that I wouldn't?”

 

“Well, for one...” She takes a deep breath, sighs, and then pinches the bridge of her nose. “Well, you see, Roxy, Dirk is at a time on his life when he starts to want... to be _romantically_ involved with people. And Cronus, being older, almost definitely has reached the point in his life where he wants to be... romantically involved with people.”

 

Roxy pulls a face. “...Are you saying... that Dirk wants to _kiss_ Cronus?”

 

“Among other things,” Rose replies with a small smile. “I'm not sure, of course, but I've had a feeling for a while that Dirk might have a tiny crush...” Her smile wanes when Roxy's face becomes frozen in an expression of shock and agony. Her daughter suddenly turns her face away to stare down the hall. Rose grimaces. “Honey?”

 

For some reason, it had never occurred to Roxy that Dirk and Cronus laughed when she called them boyfriends because, while she meant it as an insult, _they actually were._ Or at least, they want to be. Dirk wants them to be. And Cronus doesn't exactly seem opposed to the idea, with how aggressively he pursues the human boy. Something inside Roxy seems to short circuit.

 

“Oh, Roxy. It isn't that big of a deal – it's a normal part of growing up.”

 

Roxy thinks she is quite jealous after all. Beneath the shock, the thought of Dirk kissing that boy sends a curious rage coursing through her veins.

 

→

 

Roxy is still reeling with confusion hours later, when their family is joined at the dinner table by a breathless and harried Feferi.

 

“Oh my goodness – are you alright? Did you come all this way?” Rose gets up from the table swiftly, Dave following her close behind. The elderly Alternian woman is still panting, leaning over to clutch her side as the two human adults rush to her. “I'm fine, I'm fine,” she insists, but they help to settle her into Rose's seat at the table anyway. They ask her why she has come.

 

They wait patiently while she catches her breath. Dirk and Roxy look worriedly at each other, slightly afraid at the urgent air their peaceful dinner suddenly took on.

 

“Nepeta,” Feferi says, finally.

 

Roxy sits up in her chair. “Is she okay?! Did you talk to her?!”

 

“I did,” Feferi says. Dave and Rose look at each other in surprise.

 

“You went to visit Nepeta? How is she?”

 

Feferi's facial expression darkens. “She is fine. She and Equius are absolutely fine, but _we_ will not be for long.”

 

“What do you mean?” Dave asks.

 

Feferi shakes her head, many strands of dark hair spilling from beneath her hood. “Nepeta and Equius are running away. They are going to the country to hide, because Equius has received word that the capital is no longer safe.” She meets all of their eyes individually. Roxy shrinks when their gazes meet. “His highblood friends are planning to storm the castle and murder the queen. They are amassing an army as we speak, and have been for some time.”

 

Rose's hand flies to her mouth. Dave gapes. Terror falls upon the room and chokes it into silence.

 

Dirk is the first to speak up, breathless as he is. “W-we have to tell the queen, don't we?”

 

To their horror, Feferi shakes her head. “Do what you want. But the highbloods are ready. Nepeta couldn't tell me when they are attacking, but it will be soon.”

 

“How soon?” Dave sputters. “Like, tomorrow, within the hour-?”

 

“Within days,” Feferi says. “That was all Nepeta could manage to tell me. Equius would be furious if he had managed to hear us talking, she said. It was bad enough he had told _her_ the details, but you know Nepeta. She'll obey Equius to an extent, but she won't let him drag her around with absolutely no explanation.”

 

Dave starts to sit down, but then steadies himself. He wobbles on his feet. Roxy is terrified, seeing her parents like this. “Are you running, Fef?” Dave asks.

 

The older woman shakes her head. “I'm too old. I've seen so many wars within my lifetime, and I've been running from certain death since I was a young girl.”

 

“That's all the more reason to keep going, right? Why buckle now, to some shitty little civil war in a shitty little country like Derse?”

 

Feferi smiles at Dave warily. “I'm tired of running. I've lived a long life. Now, whatever will be, will be.” She looks mournful. “The question is, what will you do with this information? Will you stay and fight, or will you run?”

 

Dave smooths his hands over his face. “The army... so many people are dead, dammit, we just got out of a war. Our troops are small, but if we have to, we can. We can fight...”

 

Rose's eyes are squeezed shut. Roxy thinks her mother is emotionally and mentally shutting down, thinks she is crying, until she sees the tendrils of darkness curling around her fingers. Then Roxy realizes what is dripping from her mother's eyes.

 

It is an alarming sight, one which Roxy has seen in person before now, but not often. Her mother is seeing – she is prodding the grimdark dimension in which the horrorterrors dwell for answers. She's such an experienced magic user that she should be able to work on impulse by now, or to run through the spells in her head, but she is so desperate that the Old Language is spilling heavily from her lips in raspy syllables and vicious curls of her black-painted lips.

 

After a mere minute, her eyes open. They look normal, save for some red veins at the edges of her whites, and the last drops of black tears dissipating from her eyes. “I can't see,” Rose says. “I can't see the outcomes.”

 

“You are upset,” Feferi says, simply.

 

Rose's hands bunch into fists and begin to tremble. “Every time. Every time it's important, these damned powers just...! Disappear!” She smashes her fists onto the table, breathing erratic. “What use are they, if they don't work when I need them most?!”

 

Feferi dips her head. “There is nothing you can do but decide like those of us who cannot see, Rose.”

 

“C-can't you see, Feferi?” Roxy whispers. “Surely...?”

 

The older Alternian woman shakes her head. “I am a magic user, Roxy, but not that kind. It takes a special magic to see. I am just a witch; I heal, I help, but I have not been blessed with the power to knowingly guide the course of events.”

 

The kitchen falls deathly silent. Rose apologizes softly to her children for her emotional reaction, telling them they will be okay. Dirk and Roxy nod, but they doubt this, especially as they watch the adults continue to look as stricken as they do.

 

Dave swallows, pressing his lips into a hard line. “I'll fight. I'll stay and fight, you know I will, Rose.” he hesitates. “But... is it worth it? I mean, I know you can't see it...”

 

She gapes in horror. “Dave...”

 

“Rose,” he reaches awkwardly for her face, touching her cheek with his thumb. “Equius ran. _Equius_. I-if he doesn't think _he,_ as a highblood, isgoing to be safe during the attack... That means it's going to be all-out warfare, doesn't it? The troll queen can't care very much about her followers, can she, if she's just going to use them as living weapons to break down the castle doors?”

 

“You're talking like you're sure she's going to be unstoppable,” Rose whispers, eyes widening in horror. “Oh, Dave, don't talk like that! Not in front of our children!”

 

“If you want to run,” Dave says, “I won't blame you. I won't. You know I'll fight, you know I'll stay...” His fingers are trembling on her face. “But if this is our chance to protect our kids, to get away, it won't be cowardly to run.”

 

She purses her lips to stave their trembling, reaching up to touch his hand with her own. They remain that way, looking at each other for some time.

 

“You have a day, at least,” Feferi says softly. “I'm sure of it. But you must decide quickly. If you put it off for too long, it may be decided for you.”

 

“We must tell the queen, at least,” Rose whispers.

 

“Will she let you leave if you do?” Feferi replies.

 

Silence encapsulates the apartment. It is broken by the soft sound of Roxy crying.

 

→

 

Their parents decide to sleep on it. Tomorrow will proceed as usual – Roxy and Dirk will attend their early morning lessons. Then, when they get home, rather than sit down for homeschooling with their mother, their parents will tell them the decision they have reached regarding the oncoming attack. They are not allowed to talk to anyone about what they have learned. Roxy does not even bring it up throughout her lesson with Feferi.

 

As soon as the clock strikes twelve, Roxy leaps out of Feferi's hut and runs for the stables. The wind whips her scarf out behind her, like a vigilante's cape. The cold air hits her face at high speed and stings, but she doesn't care, barreling ahead through the grass in search of her brother. Roxy just wants to be with her family as soon as possible.

 

She trips. She doesn't sprain her ankle, she doesn't scrape her knee, but there are ugly grass stains on her pants and this makes her feel weirdly close to crying. She wipes her eyes, hoping none of those court members who usually mill about the grounds have seen her embarrass herself. She gets up and starts to jog, still frantic, but at a slightly slowly pace, her pride wounded.

 

She reaches the fence and hesitates. Dirk and Cronus aren't out in the enclosed area of grass. She wonders if she should wait for them to come out of the stables. She shifts anxiously from foot to foot, fretting over her next course of action. She ran here, so she's probably early, but if she and Dirk waste _too_ much time their parents will be worried and come looking for them.

 

Her fingers flex over the wood. It's smooth, unlikely to give her splinters. She makes a choice and, hands still gripping the top rung of the fence hard, she pushes herself up and over it. As soon as she hits the grass, she sets off running for the stable where the family horse, Maplehoof, is usually kept.

 

When she reaches the stable, she stands at the entrance, one hand on the doorway, to catch her breath. It isn't until after she has been standing there for a whole minute that she realizes she doesn't hear any voices inside. She looks up from where she's been hunching over, and cranes her neck to see into the building. The horses don't deign to spare her curious glances, and snuffle and snort ever once in a while. She thinks she sees a shock of yellow hair beyond a high stack of hay bales, and takes several steps inside to get a better look. As she walks, she thinks she sees orange horns rising above the stack, too, and she keeps walking, quietly, not thinking to call out to either boy and alert them to her presence.

 

She gets rather close before she stops herself. The pile of hay bales is still obscuring her view. She can see Dirk's hair sticking out of the side of it, can see Cronus's horns above it. They're sitting close, and making soft sounds, and she realizes, now, what's going on. And she isn't sure if she wants to interrupt them with her presence, or to call out to them, so that they have time to break apart.

 

She hears a soft knock at the entrance of the stables from which she came. She turns around to see, to her horror, that her parents have just entered.

 

“Hello, Roxy,” her mother calls out with a small smile. “Is your brother around?” Dave enters behind her, glancing around the stables with a frown.

 

At the sound of her voice, the two boys are immediately called to action. They stumble from behind the stack of hay bales, although without much planning, judging by the way Dirk nearly shoves Cronus back behind it. Both boys' faces are dark with blood, and Dirk purses and chews his lips to hide the fact that they are swollen. When his gaze falls on his sister, he frowns. “Roxy? When did you get here?”

 

She opens her mouth to answer and doesn't. Their parents approach. “A few minutes before us, I imagine,” Rose says. Then, to Roxy, “We didn't see you on the walk up. We thought we were going to have to go to Feferi's to get you.”

 

Roxy sees her father's gaze is boring into Cronus, who shifts nervously under it, scratching his neck and averting his eyes. Dave seems to decide to make the young man even more uncomfortable, prompting him with conversation. “How's Eridan doing, Cronus?”

 

“Uh,” the boy says. “Good.” He swallows. “Why are, uh, why are all of you here today? You don't normally pick Dirk up personally...”

 

“We're having a bit of a family emergency today,” Rose says with an apologetic smile. She beckons her son to come to her. “Come on, Dirk, we need to pack our things quickly. It's been nice to see you, Cronus...”

 

“No, now wait a minute, Rose, we have a second or two.” Dave smiles insincerely, wedging himself between the boys to put an arm around Cronus. “Just let me catch up with this kid.”

 

Cronus smiles awkwardly, avoiding the gaze of the human man close to him. Dirk doesn't move from where he's standing at their side, and Roxy sees the boys' eyes meet and pass the same, panicked look between them.

 

“Dave,” Rose says. “We really need to get going.”

 

“How old are you, Cronus?” Dave asks, ignoring her.

 

“Uh...”

 

“You can tell me in years, I can't count sweeps off the top of my head.”

 

“...Eighteen, sir.”

 

He laughs. “'Sir!' Hell, you don't have to call me sir, that's what the troops call me.” He doesn't offer an alternative to call him, tough. Roxy sees him clench his fingers slightly on Cronus's shoulder, prompting the younger man to jump somewhat. “Tell me, Cronus, what kind of age difference is acceptable for trolls dating each other? Because humans, you know, we tend to find the thought of someone who's practically an adult hooking up with a fourteen year old to be-”

 

“Dave? _Stop it_.” Rose glares at her husband. “There is no need to bully him in this way. You're embarrassing our son.”

 

“So you're okay with some predator coming after our kid?” Dave retorts. “You're okay with this guy taking advantage of our _fourteen_ -year-old?”

 

“He wasn't taking advantage of me, Dave!” Dirk snaps, face red. “Just because I'm younger doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing and it doesn't mean I'm not capable of reciprocating somebody's feelings!”

 

“Honestly, Dave!” Rose crosses her arms. “We need to go! Cronus, I'm sorry-”

 

“Why aren't you as bothered by this as I am?!” Dave lets go of Cronus and the boy, face stricken, sprints out of the stable's back entrance. Dirk watches him go with a sorry expression of his own. “Rose, you know that Ampora-”

 

“They're not the same person, Dave! And even so, while Eridan has been pushy in the past, he would _never_ lay his hand on anyone without their consent and he wouldn't teach his ward to do so! Your son is telling you that this is consensual, and you need to respect that!”

 

She looks imposing as she glares at her husband. Roxy sees Dirk's expression change as he looks at her to one of awe and respect. Dave continues to scowl at her.

 

“...Fine.” Dave gives a frantic shrug. “It's got a little to do with my feelings toward Eridan. But are you telling me you really don't have a problem with the age difference?”

 

Rose sighs. “Dave. We'll talk about this later, _with_ Dirk, I promise. But right now we really need to get our things and prepare to leave.”

 

“So we're really going?” Roxy cuts in, desperate to change the subject. “We're going to run away?”

 

Rose touches her daughter's hair gently. “We're going to stay with a friend for a while. Of the mayor's. A carapace man who used to be a police officer in the city. He has a home out in the country now.”

 

“What about the queen?” Roxy asks. “Did you tell the queen that people are coming to hurt her?”

 

Roxy's mother pulls her close. “Hush. We'll talk about those things later.” There is a strong smell of flowers embedded in her robes.

 

Rose begins to usher her family from the stables, snapping at Dave to follow when he lingers, hands on his hips, still looking as if he hasn't entirely let go of his anger. He follows them begrudgingly, grumbling a small apology to Dirk as he brushes past his son. Dirk worries his hands together, avoiding Dave's gaze while his eyes flit from Roxy to Rose. “What about Maplehoof? Are we just going to leave her here?”

 

“We don't have the time or the means to take her with us.” Rose beckons Dirk to her. After a moment of hesitation, he comes up to walk along her side farthest from Dave, the side not occupied by Roxy. Rose puts her arms over both of her children's shoulders.

 

“I'm sure she'll be okay,” Roxy says, quietly. Dirk nods stiffly, worry still plain in his expression.

 

As they come out of the darkness of the stable into the brightness of the winter day, Roxy's mind is swimming with doubts and fear. Seeing her father react with such anger towards Cronus makes her question her own feelings towards him and Dirk. With their family now preparing to run from the city entirely, Dirk's romance seems inconsequential. Roxy looks around the courtyard as the near the back entrance of the castle and sees for the first time that day how few people are out today. It strikes her that her family isn't the only one privy to certain secrets. It scares her, to think so many people may know about the castle's impending doom, and yet, instead of preparing it for protection, are running. It makes her fear for the sheer severity of the oncoming attack, that people feel so powerless to stop it.

 

She leans into her mother's side. “Are we going to be okay, Mom?”

 

“We are,” Rose says, the conviction strong in her voice. “We're going to be okay.”

 

→

 

A day later, Roxy and Dirk sit with their parents on the floor of their friend's country home. The children sit with their knees clutched to their chest, while their parents sit cross-legged, leaning over with their hands pressed together as if to pray. And they might be, faith may both crumble and be strengthened in times of true terror. Rose has forsaken makeup today, perhaps for the first time in Roxy's recent memory. She looks paler, more tired for it.

 

Finally, the friend, the owner of the home, comes into the room. In his hands is a piece of paper. “This just arrived from the city,” he says, voice heavy with remorse. “The worst has come.”

 

Before even reading what the letter says, Dave covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes squeezing shut. Rose slips her hands over her eyes and bows her head low. A new era has begun in Derse. The Black Queen has fallen.


	5. Act 1, Part 4: The City Anew

Act One: Reign of the Black Queen

Part Four: The City Anew

* * *

 

She's tired of living in fear, she's tired of living in suspense, and so, for the sake of normalcy, Roxy decides to make peace with her brother on the subject of Cronus Ampora.

 

“Do you miss your _boy_ friend?” In her own special way, of course.

 

The lack of malice and abundance of affection in Roxy's teasing prompts Dirk to look up from where he's been hanging his head, staring listlessly at the table. He seems surprised to see his sister smiling so pleasantly at him, and returns it momentarily. Then he twists his lips into an insincere scowl. “He's not my boyfriend.”

 

“Yes he is!” She lowers her voice. “You kissed him. You _grown up_ kissed him.”

 

Dirk blushes. “There wasn't any tongue.”

 

“But you were _making out._ ”

 

Dirk glances nervously to where their father is leaning against the counter across the huge kitchen. He's drinking coffee, and isn't looking at his kids. He seems to be pretending not to hear them, but Roxy realizes her brother might be nervous speaking candidly with her. Courteously, she lowers her voice. “So? Whatever he is, do you miss him?”

 

Dirk shrugs. “I don't know. He's kind of the last thought on my mind right now.” He hesitates, glancing back at Dave before lowering his voice again. “To be honest? ...Cronus is a really, really bad kisser.”

 

Roxy is bizarrely relieved over this revelation. She starts to giggle, she's so giddy, and soon Dirk joins her. Their mother comes into the kitchen and smiles at them. “It's nice to see you two have such high morale. Perhaps it will be an inspiration to the rest of us.”

 

She tousles both of their hair in turn. Both feign annoyance at her treating them like “babies.” Rose ignores their protests with a serene smile, walking to settle beside Dave.

 

Her expression turns to one of reluctant seriousness. She talks across the room to them, fingers twisting their way into her husband's as a way of forcing their solidarity. “Dirk, as much as I agree that you're old enough to...” She makes a vague gesture. “...To have romantic feelings, your father and I are a little worried about you developing a relationship with someone so much older than you.”

 

Her son blushes at the mere mention of the incident. So she really does intend on pressing this issue after all... “Don't we have more important things going on right now, Mom?” Dirk asks with a wince. “For all we know, Cronus is hurt too, or maybe even de-”

 

“He's not dead,” Dave snorts. “If anything, his fucking guardian is the one of the ones who helped those traitors infiltrate the castle.”

 

Rose shoots her husband a look. “Dave.”

 

“It's true! You know it's true, and I freaking hate myself because I didn't...” He slips his hand out of hers and rakes it through his hair. “I didn't try to take him down or question him before we left. I'm a total disgrace-”

 

“Dave.” Rose puts her hand on his shoulder. “This isn't your fault.”

 

He stares into his cup. “Yeah, no, it isn't. It's _ours_.”

 

Dirk nervously breaks the quiet that follows. “I won't see him anymore. It's just a crush, it's not that important. I feel really stupid, now.” They stare somberly into their hands. Dirk shrugs again. “I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't be.” Rose smiles weakly. “You have a crush. Those are perfectly normal feelings, and you acted on them.” She looks pointedly at Dave. “It also bears reminding that Cronus is a kid. We can't hold him responsible for what his parent _might have_ done.”

 

Roxy picks nervously at the skin of her hands. “...Are we ever going to go home?”

 

Her dad looks to her with genuine worry. “Roxy, we don't know if we're even going to have a home to go back to.”

 

Rose would have likely intercepted this somber taste of truth with a reprimand if their carapace host hadn't entered right then and there. He is a stocky man, slightly shorter than Dave and Rose. Roxy recalls them saying he used to be a cop; he certainly looks the part. He has the air of authority and the build one expects to find on a small-time police officer.

 

“What's all this about not having a place to stay?” Their host frowns as he steps down into his wide, well-lit kitchen, hands crossed over his chest. “You all got a home right here. Stay as long as you like.”

 

Rose's smile is polite, but strained. “As much as we would like to, we must go back to the city eventually. We need to make sure that our friends are okay.”

 

He gives a gruff sort of sigh. Yup, Roxy thinks, he's like a cartoon cop straight from the pages of the newspaper. “Well, you don't need to go _right this second_. At least promise you'll stay until the capital is safe!”

 

“They say on the radio...”

 

“Public radio! I wouldn't trust them for all of the gold in Prospit. A bunch of lousy turncoats if you ask me.”

 

Dave shrugs. “If somebody had a gun to my head, I wouldn't have a problem spouting all the propaganda they wanted. Not now that I have kids, anyway – it's hard to be the Signless-like martyr figure when you actually care about people.”

 

Their host snorts. “Funny, the mayor'd probably say the exact opposite. When you really care about people, you got to do what it takes for the greater good, even dying.”

 

Dave takes a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, well. The mayor doesn't have kids.”

 

Rose raises her eyebrows. “I thought you were the only one who called him that, Dave.”

 

“Oh, no!” Their host explains that it's an old nickname. The mayor has a legacy. From the time he was a student, he was obsessed with the thought of democratizing Derse. He has a history of participating in protests, signing petitions, educating the downtrodden, and so on. He'd even been present for the student riots at the capital's top university about a decade ago. (He wasn't a student there himself; he was a lower-class pawn, lacking in the funds to attend such a university himself, yet abundant in the empathy necessary to help those revolting there. He saw people get mutilated and injured by spells and spent the night in jail for hitting a royal guard in self defense.) According to their host, war is the only form of protest the mayor has yet to try. “I hope he never has to,” Rose says. Then, with a sigh, “Knowing Derse, though, he'll be forced to fight for his life in no time.”

 

The adults agree that the human family will not leave until they are absolutely sure they are safe to return to the castle. Roxy dreads how long this will take.

 

→

 

Eventually, a strange troll delivers a letter to the house in a familiar handwriting. _Everybody's calmed down here. But be careful_. The signature and the magic watermark are the same as Feferi's. The day after they receive this letter, Roxy's family heads back to Derse's capital. As they wave goodbye, their carapace host looks at them somberly from the doorway of his home, his arms crossed, his expression dark with worry.

 

They have been gone for only four days. In four days, the city is still intact, to a point where Roxy is unsure anything bad truly happened... But then, her dad quietly points to a building that has been burnt down. “We're walking through the nicer parts of town,” he says. “But if we took a shortcut through the poorer neighborhoods, we'd see more of that, and we'd see more of _them_.” His finger jerks again, this time, towards a bulky Alternian in a very formal looking uniform. There are stripes on his clothes that are bright blue – his blood caste, likely, although it's never been a requirement in Derse before now for trolls to have their blood color on their sleeves at all times. His hands twitch at his sides, where a gun rests. Roxy has never seen a gun before now. They are not typically a weapon of choice in Derse, as they are difficult to produce and inferior in many ways to the wand, the weapon of a magic user. A wand is precise, and lightning fast, and the exact level of lethal its wielder wants it to be. Guns are slow, and have shoddy aim yet.

 

But they are sufficient enough to maim and kill if one has no propensity for magic.

 

“No doubt he's one of the Red Queen's lackeys,” Dave says of the troll. “Wouldn't be surprised if he participated in the siege himself.”

 

Roxy looks around. She realizes the streets are curiously empty – what few trolls there are walk with an air of confidence, of ownership, and are donned in shades of blue. The carapaces she sees walk with their heads down, and are dressed entirely in black. It is as though the street is overrun with wraiths. Every once in a while one shrinks beneath the glare of a uniformed highblood.

 

“They're mourning,” Rose murmurs. She clutches her hand over her heart. “The Black Queen...”

 

“Shh!” She jumps as a human man to her right hushes her. “Don't think that just because we're not carapaces that we won't get in trouble for talking about her! All discussion of the former queen is expressly forbidden.”

 

“That explains why it's so quiet,” Dave grumbles, glaring around the streets as they cross in front of stalled traffic.

 

“My bag is heavy,” Roxy whines. She switches the shoulder over which she carries it.

 

“We'll get to the hotel soon,” Dirk replies with a sigh.

 

Roxy frowns over at her brother. “What do you mean hotel? Aren't we going home?”

 

Her parents trade nervous glances. “Soon. Hopefully, soon. You and your brother are going to stay in the hotel with our luggage while we check in on our friends, though.”

 

Roxy is bewildered. “But I want to know if Feferi's okay, too!” She scowls when they won't relent. Too dangerous – she's lived her whole life surrounded by danger!

 

“Surrounded by,” her mother agrees. “Not _in_. We have always been careful to keep you kids out of harm's way, and we're not about to stop protecting you now.”

 

Roxy tries to argue their age, but to her chagrin, her brother won't join her in this argument. He is looking around the city nervously. They walk past another burnt-down store front, and then one unmarred, utterly bereft but for the broken windows that have been boarded up.

 

Dirk shudders. “Some of the mayor's friends work there.”

 

Dave nods at Dirk's comment, slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, they did.”

 

Dave and Rose have schooled their expressions so as to not alarm their children. If anything, though, their calm is what is truly alarming. The entire city, while not a war-zone, has definitely changed for the worse. It is eerie. It is _quiet._ It is not active enough to be a place of protest – it is a place of rest instead. A place of death.

 

It hits Roxy, watching as heavily supervised lowbloods scrub walls here, streets there, that people died in this place not three days ago.

 

→

 

Roxy is restless in the hotel. She wants to see Feferi! She wants to know if Maplehoof is okay! Doesn't Dirk?!

 

He shrugs. “There are guys with weapons running around. I'm fine staying here.”

 

Roxy leaps onto a bed face-first, sighing loudly as she does so. She presses her face into the white linens for several seconds. Then, “These beds aren't comfy at all.”

 

Her voice is muffled comically by the bed. She looks up at her brother, annoyed, when he doesn't respond with the appropriate laughter. He's just sitting there, picking at his hands, looking unhappy.

 

Roxy sighs as she rolls onto her back, her arms spread out on either side of her. She remembers seeing a church burnt down several blocks from the hotel and pictures the idols of that nubby horned guy with the high pants. He's always depicted shackles up, on his knees. She saw one or two lowbloods in her class wearing tiny charms shaped like his shackles around their necks, before prayer was banned in school. And then her mom pulled them out of public school.

 

She can't remember the last time she had lessons though, with all of this turmoil. She's glad for it. School is boring! Even when her mom is technically school. Her mom refuses to skip ahead to the fun stuff like stories. They always have to do math. Really, really hard math! Roxy is so sick of algebra, and now she doesn't have to deal with it as often!

 

She waves her arms and legs, pretending to make a snow angel. This hotel room makes her think of snowstorms. Everything is bleached super white and the heating doesn't work that well. When she opens her eyes, Dirk is rubbing his arms, despite his long sleeves.

 

“When are Mom and Dad getting back?”

 

“Probably after they see everyone,” Dirk replies, shrugging.

 

“Do you think they'll meet the new queen?”

 

He hesitates. “I don't know.”

 

“She lives in the castle now,” Roxy says. “They'll probably meet her.”

 

Dirk seems distressed by this thought. Understandable – she did kill a lot of people in order to move into the castle.

 

“We shouldn't have come back here,” Dirk murmurs.

 

“What would we have done?” Roxy asks, folding her arms behind her head. “Hidden forever?”

 

He seems to consider this. He doesn't ever reply, though.

 

→

 

Their parents don't come back until it's very, very dark outside. In fact, Roxy was asleep before the sound of the door creaking open woke her up. Groggily, she squints into the dark, her mother's face growing closer, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Goodnight, Roxy.”

 

“Mom? What happened...”

 

“We'll talk tomorrow.”

 

Roxy is tired. The door shuts and with it, the streaks of light vanish. She shuts her eyes again, welcoming the embrace of the void.

 

→

 

“What do you _mean_ they want us to leave, Mommy?! Where are we going to go?”

 

Rose gentles hushes her, fingers running through her daughter's hair. Roxy is starting to cry. Dirk looks about ready to follow her lead.

 

“The new queen doesn't want us to live in the castle anymore. We're going to find a place to stay, and it's going to be okay.” Dave attempts to smile awkwardly, but by this point, Roxy is crying too hard for it to do much good.

 

“They can't make us leave!” Roxy sobs. “Not if we don't want to!”

 

“We want to,” Dave says. “Trust me, Roxy, it's just a building. Moving won't be that bad. You'll love the new place just as much.”

 

“No I won't!” She scrubs at her eyes. She can't even see everyone's faces, her eyes are squeezed so tightly shut. Her face feels hot and wet and she wants to stop crying, but she can't! For some reason the realization that she's never going to sleep in her own bed again scares her. All of her toys, her imaginary friends, have been thrown out with much of their furniture. The invaders burned all of the court members' things. They burned the bodies of the court members who _didn't_ run. Roxy is ridiculously grateful that she brought her notebooks and Jasper and Frigglish, her favorite toy kitties, to the police officer's house, and she's glad, of course, that her family is alive. But to think that their things are gone. And people are dead – people she used to wave hello to in the mornings are dead!

 

“Where's Feferi?!” she sobs. “I want to see Feferi!!”

 

Her mother purses her lips and swallows. She tugs Roxy into a fierce hug that is not at all comforting. “We don't know, baby. We don't know.”

 

Her dad stands by the doorway, his hand over his mouth, his eyes glassy, glaring into dead space while they clutch and cry on each other. Roxy pries her eyes open long enough to see that Dirk hadn't shed a tear. He is staring, wide-eyed, at his open palms. As if he, with his own hands, caused this destruction.

 

They all sleep like the dead that night. The next day, they head for new shelter.

 

→

 

Two days later, their parents come home late again. They've been coming home late every day since they came back to the city, and Roxy is getting restless. She says it's like she barely even sees he parents anymore!

 

Her mom thinks about this as she slips her nightgown over her head. She asks if Roxy would like a bedtime story, not an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. It is very late, and very dark outside, but this time Dirk and Roxy stayed up and left the lights on, waiting for their parents.

 

Dave shrugs, saying he's not that tired yet anyway. He throws himself down on his and Rose's bed, putting his arms behind his head. Rose sits on the edge, facing he children where they sit on their bed. Even Dirk looks rapt at the idea that their mother might tell them one of her fantastic stories.

 

“Watch the word choice,” Dave yawns. “Or don't. I could use something boring to lull me to sleep.” Rose smacks him on the leg before beginning her tale.

 

She tells them a new story, in a familiar setting. Once upon a time, she says, there was a young girl praised as one of the most talented magic users her age. She used her powers for good, to help the people of her kingdom, and they were grateful to her.

 

But then, a curious thing happened: just when she needed her powers the most, they dried up, like a once burgeoning spring in the midst of a drought. The girl was filled with fear; would the people of the kingdom still love her if she had nothing left to give them? Her brother told her not to worry; she would eventually get her powers back. And even if not, she was so much more than her powers! But despite the way her family showered her with love and understanding, the girl's power did not come back, and she only felt worse and worse. How could she ever be happy if she couldn't do magic? She began to try everything she could to get her powers back, even going so far as to pray to gods that may be to give her her powers back so that she may be beloved again.

 

And, to her surprise, she got an answer. You see, the girl lived in a world drenched in darkness, whose sky held not stars, but a vast and mysterious void leading to another world. (Roxy and Dirk recognize this world. Their mother has told them many stories that take place here.) When the girl whispered into the dark in the folds of her hands for guidance, a voice whispered back: the girl could be powerful again, if only she agreed to make a deal.

 

From the dark corners of her room, a stinking, black mass encroached. Smoke shapes twisted and slithered into solid tentacles that grasped. Eyes, thousands of eyes peered at her from the shadows, and a sludge-dripping, razor-toothed mouth whispered, _contract_.

 

“She made a deal with a _demon?_ ”

 

Rose lowers her hands from where she was miming swiping claws. “To put it quite dully, yes. She did.”

 

“W... what happened then?”

 

“The girl got her powers back... but at a price. You see, you can never trust a demon deal...”

 

The girl was happy to be able to serve her beloved kingdom again. Her powers seemed even greater than before; if she were more corrupt, she might think of taking the kingdom for her own!

 

But she did not. She lived on, as she had before her powers disappeared, going about her business quite normally. In fact, she became even more revered than she had before! She was the most powerful and influential magic user in the kingdom, and nothing could dampen her spirits.

 

And then, one day while she was alone in her home, the smell of the sea hit her. She was nowhere near the beach, and yet she could smell everything. The birds, the salt, the fish... Suddenly nauseous, she vomited. She vomited great, black masses of slop and writhing tentacles.

 

(“Eeeew!!!” Rose chuckles as her children cringe.)

 

The girl was terrified. She knew the old gods to which she had supplicated herself were behind this! After all, what else could behind such tentacled horrors?

 

Her tongue still soaked in the taste of the sea, the girl set up another shrine evoking the power of the old ones. She prayed until the dark corners of her room were writhing once again with eyes and teeth and tentacles. She told these appendages that reached for her from the void of what had happened, and the mouths began to laugh. Did you really think your could borrow our power without us taking anything in return? they asked her.

 

The monsters told the girl that the only way she could have her body back was if she relinquished her powers. Unable to stand the idea of being powerless, the girl refused to void her contract, and so her sickness got worse and worse. She threw up more black masses and sea water. She became weak with malnourishment, her body heavy with fatigue. She could barely get up in the morning, and barely wait to go back to sleep at night. She laid all day in bed, and talked to almost no one; socializing had become as taxing to her as swimming laps around the ocean.

 

The girl realized then and there that it mattered not what great powers the demon had given her; she was too weak to use her magic at all, and as a result, she was not only useless to her kingdom, but a burden on her loved ones. She had been so focussed on fame and on her duty to the kingdom that she forgot about the people who had loved her all along, regardless of her power. And now here she was, lying in bed, overcome with exhaustion and nausea, unable to tell them how much she loved them.

 

“What did she do?” Roxy whispered.

 

Rose blinks groggily. She was so deeply entrenched in her story that she seems surprised to be here, and looks at her children's desperate faces.

 

“...Sick in bed, she whispered to the powers that be that she didn't want her powers anymore. And they heard her; the next day, though she was still weak, she didn't vomit once. In time, and with the love of her family, she healed. And she went on with her life.”

 

“Did she ever get her magic back?” Roxy asks with a frown.

 

Rose shrugs. “No. But she was fine despite it.”

 

Roxy sighs loudly. “I don't like that ending!”

 

Dirk shrugs. “I didn't think it was too terrible.” He looks nervously at his mom. “I guess it has a moral, I mean – you can never trust a demon deal.”

 

“Certainly not.” The sound of snoring reaches her ears. Rose turns to see her husband sleeping peacefully where he laid down. She smiles affectionately at him before turning back to her children, lowering her voice. “Now, let's get to bed. Your father needs his rest.”

 

→

 

They're on their third hotel in one week when their parents sit them down to talk. They're dressed in plain clothes, and haven't worn the garb that marks them as nobility since they got into the city. They sit on one of the two hotel beds with their hands on their knees, opposite their children.

 

“Your mom and I have been talking,” Dave begins, slowly. “And, uh. This is a really difficult decision for us. But as you know, it's getting really dangerous here in the city.” He gesticulates at random. “We've been running around here, trying to get rooms in secret, trying to cover our tracks...”

 

It had never occurred to Roxy that they were running from anything. She's about to ask what, but her mom hushes Dave. He looks grateful; she's always been better with words.

 

“Kids.” She folds her hands in her lap. “We're sending you to live with some friends of ours in Prospit for a while.” She talks over the buds of their protests. “It'll be safer for you there than it is here, and we need to get you out of the country before the railways are shut down.”

 

“Why don't you come with us?!” Dirk chokes.

 

Dave bites his lip. Rose smiles wearily. “Your father and I have a duty to help our friends here. But you two do not. We want you to be safe.”

 

“You've been disappearing for hours everyday, we've barely seen you – now you're just abandoning us?!”

 

Dave begins to sputter. “We're _not_ abandoning you-”

 

“Don't you _dare,”_ Rose snaps, smashing her fist down on the bedside table. “Don't you _dare_ insinuate that, Dirk. Don't you _dare._ We love you two more than anything, don't you dare think this isn't the hardest decision we've ever had to make-!”

 

She forces herself to clam down at an awkward yet comforting hand from Dave. Dirk is glaring at his parents, jaw trembling and eyes glassy. Roxy is shocked by her mother's outburst; she so rarely loses her cool.

 

After several deep breaths, a soothing pinch or two to the bridge of her nose, their mother is calm again. “Please,” Rose pleads with them. “You two have to understand. We want you to have _normal_ childhoods. We want you to have friends, and to go to school, and to play. We couldn't live with ourselves if you couldn't have those things. We couldn't live with ourselves if you got hurt here!”

 

Roxy is dumbfounded. “But Mom... You and Dad have always protected us. You're good at it! You're good at protecting us, so why can't you stay with us like you always have?”

 

Her parents' faces as haggard at this. She feels as if she's said something wrong but it's true, isn't it? They're always kept her and her brother safe. Why is it any more difficult now...

 

“I'm sorry,” Dave says. “If there were any other way...”

 

Rose stands up abruptly and marches to the door. Dave looks up in surprise, reaching after her. “Rose-”

 

“I just,” whether it's fury or sorrow in her voice, Roxy will never be sure. “I just need a moment. I'm sorry.”

 

She slams the door behind her and leaves her husband there with their two children. He stares at the hotel room door for another moment before turning back to them. Roxy and Dirk are looking at him with mixtures of betrayal and sorrow on their faces.

 

He reaches out to them. “Hey. We love you guys. We really do. Come here.”

 

To the shock of all three of them, Dave does what Rose has always been superior at. He shoves his feelings down and comforts them. And when Roxy falls into his arms, when he strokes her hair just right, and whispers encouragement to calm their harried breaths, she thinks, what a disappointment. She's only just bonding with him, she's only just coming to understand him, and she'll be kissing him goodbye in a matter of...

 

“Days,” he whispers to her sob-addled questions. “We have a few days left. Shh. It's going to be okay – this isn't permanent. As soon as it's safe again, we're bringing you kids back. I swear on my life. We're not abandoning you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that concludes act 1!!!! next up: dirk and roxy's childhood in prospit! remember, I am always open to feedback, so don't be shy about leaving comments~


	6. Act 2: The Prospit Years; Part 1: Out of the Darkness and into the Sunlight

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part One: Out of the Darkness and into the Sunlight

* * *

 

“Prospit's got the same type of people, so how is it any better?”

 

Rose smiles thinly as she leans in, adjusting Dirk's coat. “Prospitians are just less violent than Dersites, honey.”

 

“How, though?”

 

She sighs. “I don't know. Better laws, I suppose.”

 

Roxy chews the inside of her mouth. “If Prospit's so much better, then why did you and Dad ever leave?”

 

Her mother doesn't answer her question, giving her a tired look instead.

 

Their family is standing in a crowded train station in Derse. Roxy's stomach feels like it's going to rise up into the air, and she looks around the station to distract herself from the terrible feeling. There are people of every race and in all sizes and colors. Black carapaces, black humans, auburn-skinned humans, trolls with nubby horns decked out in bright green clothes, carapaces that are tall and some that are short and squat. She sees a human girl with hair black and sleek like a troll's clutch and cry on the shoulder of a carapace who looks twice her age. She sees young trolls dressed in noble blood colors, clasping older trolls' hands awkwardly, and then boarding the train. Her family is not the only one splitting up in this grey, poorly cleaned place.

 

Roxy's parents are decked out in dark cloaks that cover their entire bodies and their faces. She wishes she could see their faces unobscured, unshadowed, but Dirk says it's a big enough risk that they came to drop Roxy and Dirk off at the station by themselves. Roxy doesn't ask the reason for such secrecy; she knows they won't tell her, anyway.

 

Dave reaches down to kiss Roxy's cheek sloppily. She giggles weakly, pushing his face away as he tries to lay more across her face. “Dad!”

 

“Be a good girl,” he says, smiling in between pecks. “John's a great guy, you're going to love him. He's got a niece and nephew your age that he says practically live with him.” Dave smooths her hair down, gently clasping her face. “You're going to make so many new friends. It's all going to go by so fast, and before you know it, you'll be bored, back home with us! And you'll be like, wow, my parents suck, I want to go back to Prospit and hang with John...”

 

Roxy shakes her head rapidly, feeling the tears beginning to flood her eyes. “I'd never think that! I'll always like you and Mom best...”

 

He kisses her tears away, then stands up. Rose has her hands on Dirk's shoulders, and is telling him in a stern, motherly voice that he needs to look after Roxy. Roxy, despite herself, is annoyed by this – she's not some helpless baby! Rose sees her daughter scowling at her and smiles. “And you, Roxy – you need to look after Dirk, too. You two need to look after each other, because that's what family does.” She purses her lips for a moment. Then she says, her voice heavy, “We're going to miss you both so much.”

 

She pulls them into a tight hug. After a moment, Dave lazily drapes himself over them as well. Dirk gives a small, teary laugh.

 

Eventually, the family is forced to pull apart. There are a few last kisses, some hands on shoulders, some parental words of approval. Rose reminds her kids several times how to board the train, where to hand in their tickets, and Dirk tells her she's told them that already, numerous times, and he knows what to do.

 

Dave and Rose are about to leave when Rose stops where she stands, staring at her kids. Then, she reaches inside her coat and pulls, from around her neck, her scarf. It is long and covered in stripes of alternating shades of purple. She steps forward and winds the scarf around Roxy's neck several times, smiling tearily at her. “Stay warm.” She kisses them both. “I love you two. Be brave.”

 

She turns around. Roxy feels her brother's hand slip into hers and tug. Never once taking her eyes off her mom, she allows her brother to guide her up and onto the train. Once inside, Dirk helps her and several other smaller kids put their luggage overhead.

 

Roxy wants to watch her parents from their compartment's window. But by the time they get seated, Rose and Dave have disappeared into the crowd of people.

 

→

 

Derse's border is only an hour away from its capital, but the capital of Prospit is far deeper into its country. As a result, they are all forced to sleep on the train. At first Roxy thinks it's going to be difficult – she's sitting up, in a compartment with several other strange children, many of whom won't shut up. The train seems to roar as it rolls along the tracks, and Roxy wants nothing more than to be able to sleep. Eventually, though, the whining and goofing off dies down, and Roxy leans into her brother's shoulder and drifts off into the dark void of sleep.

 

She awakes to a massively sore neck. She lifts her face off Dirk's shoulder with a groan, sunlight from the windows shining down mercilessly on her face. Already she hears kids badgering each other. Someone gasps and yells at her companion to look, and Roxy, out of curiosity, follows their awed gazes.

 

Outside the window is a city of gold. It is nearly blinding, the way the sun shines off the many surfaces. In fact, it is the first time any of the young Derites have ever seen unfiltered sunlight. They stare in awe at the majestic city, in all of its architectural glory. The towers are like stalactites, piercing the sky, and every building is an elaborate masterpiece.

 

Dirk blinks into the light, then frowns. “It's look just like Derse, just. Yellow.” He squints at a particularly oppressive beam of light. “It's rather obnoxious.”

 

The city rushes by. White carapaces and fair-haired humans mill around, and there are trolls dressed in all colors of the rainbow, walking down the same side of the street! Citizens in Prospit wave to the train up until the moment it disappears into the station, and everything grows dark once again.

 

“Did you see that?!” a little carapace boy gasps. “I've never seen so many white people!”

 

→

 

They come out of the train into a station similar to the one in Derse, but cleaner and brighter. Adults depart the train with purpose, but the kids proceed cautiously, searching the crowd for familiar faces. The little carapace boy who shouted is the first to run forward, beaming, into the arms of a lanky, white carapace woman. Then a pair of preteen trolls recognize their names on one of the paper signs being held high, and split apart from the group. Some children simply walk right into into the crowd, as if they know their way around the city already. There aren't as many mixed-race couples in this station as in the one in Derse; in fact, Roxy doesn't see any at all. Roxy clutches her brother's hand in one hand, her suitcase in the other. Her mother's scarf is still wound tightly around her neck, smelling of her hair.

 

Dirk perks up. “Oh, look...”

 

Roxy recognizes her and her brother's name on a sheet of paper being held by a man in blue. He has jet black hair, light tannish skin, and narrow, very dark blue eyes hidden by spectacles. When the kids look his way, he grins, and Roxy sees the man has slightly large front teeth.

 

Dirk pulls Roxy forward. The man keeps smiling at them as they approach. “I knew it,” he says when they get within earshot. “You two look just like you parents!”

 

“...John?” Dirk says, cautiously. The man suddenly looks sheepish.

 

“Oh, yeah! I forgot, we've never met before. Yes, I'm John! You must be Dirk.” He leans down to smile at the younger sibling. “And you must be Roxy?”

 

She smiles back and nods. She doesn't try to hide behind her brother; she isn't shy, especially not in the face of such a friendly person. John folds up the piece of paper with their names on it and shoves it into his pocket. His expression is still cheery. “Come on, I'll show you your new home!”

 

Roxy feels sadness tug at her chest at the thought of a home away from her parents and Derse, but she shoves it down to follow John. To her surprise, Dirk is the one whose hand tugs hers somewhat as he trails behind. He doesn't refuse to budge, at least.

 

“I was your dad's best friend when we were kids,” John says as he walks. “I was pretty close to your mom too, though. She was probably _my_ best friend,” he chuckles. Dirk raises his eyebrows at that but doesn't comment. John babbles on about idle topics, and Roxy is surprised to learn that there are adults who don't talk nonstop about politics. John not only neglects the topic of why Roxy and Dirk have been sent to live with him, but he doesn't bother with current events in Prospit, either. He just goes on about his niece and nephew, and his favorite places to eat in town, and the books he's recently read. He is by far the least serious adult Roxy has ever met, even including Nepeta.

 

“...my sister, you'll meet her soon, too. She's Jake's mom, I think I mentioned him. Anyway, she's been mad at me lately, but she'll be too excited to meet you two to bother me about family drama so I should be thanking you...”

 

As they continue to walk through the large, crowded train station, Roxy thinks it's odd that John doesn't reach for her hands, until she realizes how they are. John probably thinks that they're plenty big enough to walk like adults.

 

They exit the train station and continue walking. John says he didn't call a carriage because he wants them to take in the sights of the city. The people who mill past them on the street look cheerful, and many wave to John as he walks past. He grins at the kids over his shoulder. “I'm a big deal around here, hehe. The Egberts have been high society in this city for decades, and we give loads back to the community.”

 

He pauses to return the greetings of a tall, skinny carapace woman. She's wearing a messenger bag and a pastel-colored uniform. Roxy guesses from the logo emblazoned on her shirt front she is a post office worker.

 

“It's very nice to see you, John.” She looks past him, smiling sweetly at the children. “And who do we have here?”

 

“These are the La – er, the Strider kids! Roxy and Dirk. You wouldn't know their parents, they came from Derse. In the midst of the whole... you know.” He lowers his voice for this part, gesturing vaguely in a way that makes the parcel mistress nod rapidly in understanding. He brightens up as he turns back to Dirk and Roxy. “Say hi, kids!”

 

Roxy greets her politely, but she can't help thinking about how her parents grew up in Prospit. That's how they knew John growing up, after all. But if John thinks this lady wouldn't know her parents, he must be right...

 

The parcel mistress waves goodbye to them as they continue on. John points to his favorite spots in the city as they walk. At one point, he crinkles his nose, and turns to them with a funny look on his face.

 

“How old are you two, again?”

 

“I just turned eleven in December,” Roxy replies. She points to Dirk, who has made no move to talk. “He's fourteen.”

 

“I thought so.” John laughs. “It's just... aren't you two a little old to be holding hands?”

 

“No,” Dirk says. It's the first thing he's said since they left the train station. She smiles as he squeezes her hand tighter, as if in defiance.

 

John looks uncomfortable. “Okay, then! Never mind! We're almost to my place, so let's keep going!”

 

→

 

Dave explained it wrong. John's niece doesn't _practically_ live with him – she just _does_ live with him. She looks a lot like John, but her eyes are a far lighter blue, and her skin is slightly lighter too, like Roxy's. Her hair is cut short, like a boy's, and is so shiny and sleek that Roxy feels herself gripped with jealousy just seeing it. This girl is Dirk's age, but she's curvy enough that she looks older, even being relatively short.

 

She introduces herself as Jane. She is baking when they come in, an activity Roxy has never associated with either women or teenagers. The counter is shockingly neat; Jane has carefully laid out her baking supplies on paper towels, and hasn't seemed to let any ingredients spill onto the broad, marble counters. She offers a spoon stuck with dough to the Strider siblings, and Dirk shrugs it off, allowing Roxy to keep it to herself.

 

“Why do you live with your uncle and not your parents?” is the first question Roxy asks as she licks the spoon. John sucks in a breath like he's just had the wind punched out of him.

 

Jane smiles sweetly at her. “My parents are dead.”

 

Roxy's eyes widen in shock. “Oh my gosh! I'm really sorry...”

 

Jane waves her off calmly. “It's okay. It's been long enough that I'm not sad thinking about them now – I mean, I am, but I can focus on happy memories instead of bad ones.” And it's true; Jane doesn't seem bothered by the question at all. John meanwhile is still struggling to compose himself. “It's okay, really.”

 

Dirk coughs quietly. “...Still. It's a difficult thing to have to go through, even if you feel you've gotten through the worst of it. We're very sorry for your loss.” It's the first thing Dirk's said since they entered the kitchen. Jane smiles at him, a mixture of gratitude and sadness in her eyes. She doesn't tell him to take his apology back.

 

Roxy feels she should say something to make it even. She lowers the spoon from her mouth. “W-well, my parents are alive, but we can't live with them anymore because it's dangerous in Derse! Um, I don't think it's a war exactly, but my Mom said the government is killing people just because they like the Black Queen or they have lowblood, which is wrong! So now me and Dirk have to stay here until it all blows over.”

 

Jane nods gravely. “Uncle John told me that. I'm very sorry.”

 

“No, don't be!” Roxy licks the spoon awkwardly. She feels bad accepting this delicious gift now, but Jane remains cheerful as she moves around the kitchen, baking. It's a huge kitchen; Roxy thinks it may even be bigger than her home in Derse.

 

“And what about you?” Jane asks. It takes the siblings a moment to realize she's talking to Dirk. “You've been quiet since you got here. Are you liking Prospit so far?”

 

Dirk hesitates. “...It's just really different from home,” he admits. “Everything's just so... _bright_.”

 

Jane laughs. “And Derse is just so dark! I've seen pictures on the covers of magazines, you know, 'The Warfront in Derse,' 'Send in a Penny a Day and Feed a Starving Child.' Is it true that all the buildings in the capital are violet?”

 

“Yeah,” Dirk replies.

 

“And the streets? Are they really paved in violet, too?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Judging from the way she smiles in reply, she seems to find this enchanting. Dirk scrapes idly at the wood of his chair. “...You said they have penny programs for starving kids?”

 

“Yeah! Me and my parents supported some Alternian children before that empire collapsed. We never sent in money for a Dersite, though. Sorry,” she adds, an afterthought.

 

Dirk shakes his head, shifting uncomfortably. “Oh, no, it's cool. It's not like _we_ personally lived off charities, so it'd be no effect on us if you sent nothing in. I mean, we lived in the palace because my parents worked for the Black Queen.” We had money, is the implication.

 

John coughs. “It's awful that the person who overthrew her is such a bitch. Derse could use some new management.”

 

It's the first political comment Roxy's heard John make. She crinkles her nose. “It sucks she was overthrown at all – the Black Queen was a good person! She cared about Derse.”

 

John and Jane trade glances. Roxy is about to elaborate when Dirk's hand lands on her shoulder. He shakes his head at her silently.

 

“Why not?” Roxy huffs.

 

Dirk sighs. “Let's just not talk about that right now.” He glances around the room for some other topic to bring up. Finding none, he seems to deflate, nervous and quiet.

 

John has mercy on him. “It's going to be a full house with you two staying with us, but don't worry, we have room.” He laughs to himself. “Hey, Jane, don't ever say I don't spoil you rotten – I've gotten you a pair of live-in friends!”

 

The uncle and niece laugh at this charming observation. Dirk smiles weakly. Roxy quietly finishes off the last of the dough on the spoon.

 

→

 

It's less of a “full-house” and more of a spacious mansion with four people living in it. It puts their tower apartment back in Derse to shame. Roxy can't help but wonder, if Jane didn't always live with John, why he would need a house thisbig to begin with. She feels like they have access to a whole castle! Roxy and Dirk, for the first time in their lives, even get rooms all to themselves.

 

Upon hearing this fact, John seems surprised. “I thought you guys said you were nobility!” he chuckles. “I couldn't even imagine sharing a room with my brother and sister growing up – well, I mean, my brother was way older than me, so he wouldn't have even been in the house... But Jade! I love her to death, but I couldn't stand having all her dumb dog stuff clogging up my personal space. You kids are in for a real treat! Your first time having rooms apart!”

 

Roxy leans in to whisper to Dirk. “Hey – he keeps rambling! It kind of reminds me of Dad.”

 

A smile sneaks its way across her older brother's face. “Yeah,” he replies. “I wonder if this is why they were such good friends.”

 

“Maybe he's doing this on purpose, to comfort us.”

 

Dirk pulls a face. “ _May_ be.”

 

John scolds them playfully for talking behind his back. He and Jane help the Striders unpack and settle into their rooms, which, Roxy is disappointed to see, are quite far down the hall from each other. She watches Dirk and John disappear into Dirk's new room, her brother looking nervously after her as a fatherly hand on his back guides him inside.

 

Jane makes lighthearted chitchat while she helps Roxy settle in. She makes a show of removing clothes and then refolding them before she puts them away, as if trying to stretch what very little luggage Roxy has out so she has an excuse to stay and talk to her.

 

Jane pauses suddenly, looking at the last of Roxy's three shirts. “We'll get you new clothes, if you like. What do prefer to wear? Dresses? Sweaters? Pants?”

 

“...I used to have lots of skirts,” Roxy says. She fiddles with Frigglish, one of the only two toys she has managed to salvage. A plush black cat her mother named. Her favorite toy since infancy, thoroughly loved... and thus falling apart at the seams. “I don't want to put your uncle through too much trouble, though!”

 

“Nonsense!” Jane beams at Roxy. “You live here now – you're practically family! And in case you haven't noticed,” she gestures at the sheer grandiose of the eleven-year-old's room, “my uncle has money to spare. He might as well buy _useful_ stuff with it for once.”

 

Roxy smiles lightly at the comment. “Thanks!” She looks down at Frigglish, and then at the older girl, before tossing him onto the queen-sized bed.

 

Jane put's Roxy's last shirt into a big, white set of drawers. She hums as she thinks. “...Do you need anything else?”

 

“Like food?” Roxy asks.

 

“We'll have dinner in an hour, and the cookies I made will be cool by then.” Jane smiles lightly. “But what about books? Do you like to read? I could see if we have anything around the house you can borrow. Or games?”

 

She's referring to how little Roxy has with her. The blond girl hesitates. “Well, I don't know if you have any fantasy stuff... fairy-tales?”

 

Jane frowns, thinking. “Maybe... I _might_ have a really old book of fairy-tales from when I was little. I'll be sure to look!”

 

Roxy shrugs. “Oh – you know, I'll read anything, really! What do you like?”

 

Jane blushes. “My favorites are mysteries – detective stories, especially! They're not exactly high literature, I know, but they're just so gosh darn exciting!”

 

Well, if an older girl like Jane thinks they're cool... “I could try some of those!”

 

Jane looks so utterly thrilled at the thought of sharing her favorite books with someone that she even claps a little. “Super! I'll go get some for you!”

 

She hurries out of the room. Roxy smiles after her for a few moments. Then, the boredom of waiting begins to set in, closely followed by the upsetting kinds of thoughts she's been having since the moment her parents told her they were sending her away.

 

Before, she had barely ever even stepped out into Derse's city. Now, she's hundreds and hundreds of miles from the royal palace. And while it's true that she was separated from her father by a war from years, her mom was always there, at least physically. And if not her, Nepeta. And Feferi. Oh, god – Roxy comes to the sickening realization that she's left behind even more family than she realized. Everybody who raised her is far, far away. Even people like Cronus Ampora, who were always _just there,_ are hundreds of miles away. What's scarier is to think that maybe grumpy Mr. Ampora and Equius may have even had something to _do_ with why her family's been forced to split up!! To think that people Roxy know may have helped an evil murderer...

 

Jane gets back with a large pile of books in her arms, smiling brightly until she sees the way the younger girl is tearing up as she stands, looking lost, in the middle of the strange bedroom. Jane sets the books on the bed and then throws her arms around Roxy, gently telling her that it's all alright.

 

And while Roxy appreciates Jane caring about her, especially when they barely know each other, she can't help but feel like, no. Jane doesn't know for sure that everything's going to be alright. And even though it's nice of her to hug Roxy, it feels wrong. She wants her mom's fingers gently carding through her hair. She wants her dad to say something funny and make all this body-wracking terror and sadness to go away. She wants to go home.

 

→

 

You're eleven years old, Roxy tells herself. She tells herself this as the lights go out in the gigantic house and the dark air in her bedroom seems to become a vacuum where light comes to die. She tells herself this as she tosses and turns and frets beneath silk sheets. She tells herself this as she sneaks quietly down the hall, and knocks gently on her brother's door.

 

She doesn't wait for an answer before she goes in, but he's awake. He jolts at the sight of her and then relaxes. “Did you get scared?” he asks, groggily. She shakes her head rapidly. “Good,” he replies. “You never get scared of the dark. I'd be worried if you were.” He pulls his covers open, inviting her in. “What's really wrong?”

 

“I miss Mom and Dad.” She shuts the door and scuttles over, her eyes adjusting to the light of the moon in his window as she slips into bed beside him. She rests her head in the crook of his neck. “And maybe I _am_ a little scared. Not of monsters, but for them. What if they die?”

 

“...I miss them too,” Dirk whispers to her. “And I don't know. I guess we'll live in Prospit forever then.”

 

They stare into the dark. “...Maybe Nepeta could adopt us.”

 

“I don't think Equius would ever go for that.”

 

Silence again. Then,

 

“Do you think Feferi's okay?”

 

“She has to be,” Dirk whispers back. “She sent us that letter telling us we could go back to the capital.” He pulls his sister close all the same. Roxy puts her arm over her brother, so that they're hugging each other.

 

“It's easier for us to fit into these beds together than the ones at home, or even the hotel beds.”

 

He yawns. “Yeah, these beds are huge.”

 

She yawns, too. “Uh huh...”

 

They fall asleep wrapped up together like this, the darkness a comforting blanket, a safe hiding place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if it was clear (it happened several chapters ago by now), but dirk changed the subject because of the war between prospit and derse. snowman was a good ruler to derse, but prospitians, understandably, do not like her at all. (she is especially hated by the people whose dads and brothers and moms and sisters-in-law died fighting her off.........)


	7. Act 2, Part 2: Family, Friends, and the Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy sorry I skipped an update last week I got depressed and didn't feel like updating haha kind of ridiculous since i've had 19 chapters of this fic written since august so all I had 2 do was copy and paste and click some buttons but I just didnt feel up to it

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Two: Family, Friends, and the Like

* * *

 

Where her brother is light-skinned to the point where he may pass for white (if not for the sleek, impeccably dark color of his hair), Jade English's skin is a light brown, fawn-like color. Where her brother's eyes are an incredibly dark blue, hers are a light, shiny green. Where John's hair is short, messy, Jade's is incredibly long and twice as frazzled. And yet, that is where the differences end: everything from the shape of their eyes to the alignment of their teeth is exactly alike. They are clearly siblings.

 

Jake English, Jade's son, wears his hair exactly like John, making him look like a smaller, darker-skinned clone of his uncle. His eyes are green like his mother's, but dark, like his uncle's. He smiles shyly at the Striders and, sure enough, there are the classic Egbert-English teeth, the charming overbite.

 

Jane clearly adores her cousin. She looks at him much the way Rose used to look at Dave. (The way Cronus used to look at Dirk, Roxy thinks with a begrudging smirk.) As Jane grabs her cousin by the hand and drags him closer to her house guests, Roxy can't help but think that she's outnumbered. To a child, three years can seem an insurmountable age gap at times, and Roxy is surrounded by teenagers. Will she be forced to be the baby forever?

 

Thankfully, Jake is as good to her as Jane is. He treats her like a peer; he laughs at her jokes, he shows as much interest in her as he does Dirk. He smiles at her and it makes her feel a little nervous, a little giddy herself.

 

The kids find out they have similar birthdays. Jake says he was born on December first, meaning he just turned fourteen this past winter, to which Roxy excitedly replies that her brother also did on December third. “And _my_ birthday's on the fourth! My mom always says I was Dirk's late birthday present!”

 

“I'm just glad we don't have to share a birthday. I'd like you a whole lot less if you came on time,” Dirk teases, which earns him a playful punch from his little sister.

 

Jane groans. “Now I feel left out! _My_ birthday's in April!” Upon hearing this, the kids get excited, showering her with attention; April is fast approaching. It's getting warmer every day, but that doesn't deter Roxy from winding her mother's scarf around her shoulders.

 

Jade is an old friend of Dave and Rose, too, and she tells the kids as much as she traps them in a powerfully affectionate bear hug. Roxy decides that she adores this woman, who has such a cheerful yet tough demeanor, and a glance at Dirk shows he feels much the same way. Jade tells them that if John bores them with his big dumb house and they need a taste of real fun, she'll take them hiking sometime, or mountain-climbing, or, heck, she'll do anything with them they like, even if it isn't athletic. She and John seem to get along fine the entire time they're together, but later, Dirk swears to Roxy that there was tension between them. John's laughter, he says, was mostly forced, and Jade made a point not to talk directly to him. Roxy feels sad that their relationship is strained; she couldn't imagine ever being anything but best friends with her own brother.

 

John is sure to keep the Strider kids busy enough that they have no time to dwell on sadness. The first week Roxy and Dirk are at John's home, Jade comes over most days with her son to welcome them, and the four children run around the house and the gated yard together. Roxy is somewhat surprised that the older kids want to play adventure games, and is sure they're just indulging her. Jake laughs at this thought; he says he's going to climb trees and chase imaginary bad guys until he's forty. Sometimes, even John and Jade will join them; John is quite the prankster, and playing with him usually means getting pushed into a pool when caught unawares. But that's okay; Jade is old enough and fast enough to be able to wreak revenge on him for the kids' sakes.

 

At the end of the first week in the Egbert household, there is a particularly warm day. Roxy comes inside to escape the sun. Wiping the sweat from beneath her bangs, she wanders into the kitchen in search of something to drink. The adults are in the center of the room; John is standing up, drying his hair with a hand towel, and Jade is snickering at him from where she sits, her elbows on the table. Roxy's happy to see them getting along, thinking that maybe they'll make up over whatever it was Dirk claims they were fighting over. She smiles as she grabs a cup from a low cupboard and reaches up to pour herself a drink.

 

“What're you so happy about?” John asks, drying off his neck. Roxy shrugs, still smiling.

 

“Ooh, that reminds me.” Jade reaches forward and grabs something from the middle of the table. She offers it to Roxy. It's an envelope. “You and your brother got a letter.”

 

Roxy immediately sets her cup aside to grab at the letter with both hands. Her entire body thrums, alight with hope; that's John's address on the front, but those are her and Dirk's names written above it! She looks at the return address and frowns; she doesn't recognize it. She thinks it must be wherever her parents are staying. Later, Dirk will confirm that it is the location of the post office in Derse's capital.

 

Roxy runs outside waving the letter and screaming her brother's name. At first all she sees is Jane sitting beneath the big tree in the yard. She is reading a book, smiling absently as she focusses deeply on the fictional world dancing behind the words on the page. Roxy slows her run down to a walk, looking carefully, and then finally sees that Dirk is actually up in the branches of the tree. Between the leaves, she can see him deeply engaged in a conversation with Jake. Light gray and green shadows fall over their faces, accenting Jake's coloring beautifully. Jake sits on the part of the branch closest to the trunk; his skin is only just lighter than the bark. He'd blend in quite nicely if not for the harsh yellows of his tunic and pants. Dirk, in contrast, stands out entirely amongst the leaves, an awkward pink and yellow thing that Roxy's surprised she didn't notice sooner.

 

“Dirk!!” She calls again, waving the letter. “Mom and Dad wrote to us!!”

 

Her brother and Jake finally turn to look at her. Jake smiles at Dirk, looking excited for the siblings, but Dirk himself is wide-eyed with surprise. He has to crawl over Jake to get out of the tree, fumbling and apologizing as he does so. Roxy makes it to the base of the tree just as Dirk lands, on his feet, but wobbling significantly. He brushes himself off as Roxy excitedly waves the letter in his face.

 

She pauses in her joy to look at him closely. “Are you getting sunburnt? You're so red!”

 

Dirk's ruddiness only persists. “Let's go inside to read. I don't want the wind to blow the letter away.”

 

The moment they enter the back door to the kitchen, Roxy rushes to the table where Jade still sits to tear the envelope open and yank out the letter. She shoves it towards her brother as he approaches. “You read it! Mom always uses the biggest, hardest words.”

 

He takes the paper from her and unfolds it with the utmost care. It is from their parents, and thus precious; he doesn't want to damage it.

 

He reads:

 

_Dear Dirk and Roxy,_

 

_Your father and I miss you terribly already. I only hope you do not feel the same way. You mustn't worry about us; our separation will –_ the word “hopefully” is scratched out – _be brief. Your father and I have lodging with friends. We trust them with our lives._

 

_The city is getting worse every day._ (“They didn't leave the capital?” Dirk murmurs to himself.) _Nepeta and Equius have made the decision to stay in the countryside, where I hope they will remain safe. It is hard to tell at this point how far the conflict will spread. We are still having trouble locating Feferi, but I'm sure she will be alright. She has been around for a long time and seen a lot, so even though Derse is under much reformation, I doubt it is anything she hasn't lived through before._

 

_I'm sorry to say that our friend Eridan Ampora, Cronus's guardian, is dead. He was hanged in the center of the city several days ago. He was a powerful man, and his murder is suspected to be the work of anti-imperialist radicals, although his many half-joking attempts to claim himself as the illegitimate child of the empress and the captain of her navy may have earned him some imperialist enemies. Cronus, thank god, is safe, and will be sent someplace where he will remain so._

 

_Your father and I think about you every day. We love you so much, and we hope you enjoy yourselves while you are in Prospit. You are safe there, and so you must let yourselves relax. I'm glad that we're finally able to give the two of you the childhood you deserve; I only regret that we cannot be there to experience it with you._

 

_Be brave, be strong, and above all, live your new lives to the fullest._

 

_Until we meet again,_

 

_Mom and Dad._

 

“Hey,” Dirk said, suddenly. “There's a postscript from Dad.” His lips twist with reluctant amusement. “It's written in all caps.”

 

“What's it say?” Roxy asks, surprised. Her father rarely writes; their mother insists he needn't feel so self-conscious, but he says his grammar is too terrible to write anything formal with. All Roxy's ever seen him write are half-serious birthday cards and silly short stories.

 

Dirk neglects to shout the words as they are written. “'Love you two. The Mayor is safe and sound with us. Don't fret over anything morbid your mom wrote.'”

 

“That _was_ a pretty dreary letter,” John says with a wince. Jade looks mildly upset, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I can't believe Eridan is dead... I thought for sure he'd outlive us.”

 

“Yeah. Assholes usually, do,” John says. Jade punches him in the arm. “I thought he'd live a long time because of his blood, idiot! God!” She rakes her hand through her hair. “Please don't joke about the dead.”

 

“Sorry,” John mutters. “Humor's my defense mechanism...”

 

Roxy and Dirk are uninterested in John and Jade's squabble. Instead, they stare at the letter, as if doing so for long enough will cause more words to rise from the page. They turn it over and the back is blank. They've gotten a morsel from their parents, but they want more; they miss them, terribly, and can't stop, no matter how Rose begs them not to.

 

“I wonder how Cronus survived,” Dirk says. “You'd think whoever killed Eridan wouldn't really care about casualties. I wonder how they even know he's alive...”

 

“They didn't say much about where they're staying,” Roxy adds with a frown. “I didn't even know they had friends other than Nepeta and Feferi and all the other trolls...” But then, they didn't know about John and Jade and those in Prospit, either. They know little to nothing about their parents' childhood, let alone their lives outside of their family.

 

Dirk reluctantly folds the letter up. He plans on holding onto it, Roxy can tell. She wonders how many times he'll read the letter over, looking for more.

 

“I can't believe your parents tell you so much political stuff,” John says. “It just seems so unnecessary. Leave it to Rose to be such a downer as a parent, but Dave you'd think...”

 

Jade glares at him. “Anyone can tell you don't have any kids of your own from that remark.” She shoves her glasses up the bridge of her nose so she has an excuse to block her view of him. “I still don't know what James was thinking, giving Jane to you.”

 

John makes a huffy, immature noise of annoyance. “Are you _still_ jealous over that? You already have a kid, he was probably just trying not to dump more single-parenting duties on you. Stop taking everything so personally.”

 

She stands up quickly enough to make her chair wobble. “How am I _not_ supposed to take my older brother willing his daughter to my irresponsible, bachelor brother personally?! You don't know anything about raising a kid – with the way she cooks and cleans around this house, everybody must think she's your _servant_ instead of your niece!”

 

John balks. “She likes to do those things!”

 

“Really, John? _Really?_ ”

 

Roxy and Dirk trade a quick look, silently agreeing that this situation has put them off. They manage to sneak into the yard and close the back door behind them just as the adults start a full-blown argument over what's best for Jane. Dirk shoves the letter in his pocket as they walk towards where the cousins are now sitting, leaning on the tree trunk, talking.

 

“Was your letter nice?” Jane asks when they’ve gotten close. Dirk and Roxy nod, but they must look unconvincing, because Jane frowns at them. “But you look so upset!”

 

“One of our friends is missing,” Dirk says. “And another person we know died.” He doesn't mention the argument in the kitchen. Roxy figures Jane has had to deal with those two fighting over her enough.

 

“Oh! I'm so sorry!” Jane puts a hand over her chest. Jake gives them a sympathetic nod, but seems too uncomfortable to say anything. Roxy knows that feeling; of wanting to comfort, but not knowing how to go about it.

 

“It's fine,” Roxy says. She suggests that they play a game, and Jane and Jake go along with it, if only because they are unsure what else to do. Roxy is sure to keep Jane from entering the house for a while; she's never seen adults argue so furiously, but considering they had no problem losing their cool in front of a pair of kids, Roxy has no idea how long it will take Jade and John to get civil again.

 

→

 

Later that night, before they go to bed, John apologizes to the Strider siblings for fighting in front of them. Well, Roxy figures that what he's apologizing for. All he really said was a timid “Sorry,” before flitting out of the room. Roxy thinks she'd do the same thing, in his situation. Dirk doesn't find John's shame quite as endearing as she does.

 

The next day, however, Jade gives them what Dirk refers to as a _real_ apology. She hugs them and says she shouldn't have acted that way in front of them, and asks if they will forgive her. (Which, of course, they do.) She then apologizes to _John_ in front of them. Her brother fumbles with her apology, like a hot stone thrown too fast into his hands. Dirk frowns at the sight, and Roxy has the feeling that he doesn't care for their host all that much.

 

That day, when they're playing in the yard, Dirk opts to sit out. Roxy is sad to see him wander over to the tree, alone, but he's been a little shy since they got here. Even after knowing these people for a week, he still has moments where he disappears, sometimes like now, with warning, and sometimes without it. Roxy's glad to see him stay in the yard, at least. This way she can keep an eye on him.

 

She and Jake and Jane play pirates. Jake is the most enthusiastic in terms of loud, booming play-voices and roughhousing, whereas Jane often falls into embarrassed giggles when she attempts to match his overacting. Roxy wishes Dirk would join them, but she supposes the occasional smile he tosses their way is good enough. He moves, though, when they decide to use the tree as the mast for their ship, and sits on the porch steps instead.

 

Roxy is climbing up the trunk of the tree, laughing happily with abandon, finally letting her worries dissipate from her mind when she hears Jake's voice call out to her tentatively from below. “Uh. Roxy?”

 

She thinks the crack in Jake's voice is simply due to puberty. Dirk's own voice started to crack when he hit twelve, but people rarely heard it, his humiliation prompting him to a constant silence. Jake, since she's known him, has been talkative, and thus full of mortifying squeaks that send him blushing up a storm. And so, not thinking anything's really wrong, Roxy yells back, “Who are you talking about?! I am Captain Frigglish Von Necromancer, the most fearsome lady pirate on the sea!”

 

“Uh.” The wobbling in Jake's voice persists. “Well, Miss Necromancer, uh... It looks like you've got a bit of a wound there.”

 

Roxy frowns up into the leaves of the tree. “Wound? You haven't even hit me with your sword!”

 

The stick he found in the yard, she means. They've been using them as makeshift swords. He persists. “No, Roxy, you're truly really bleeding...”

 

She slides down the trunk cautiously. “You better not be lying, you cheater!” She looks down on herself, inspecting her clothes for cuts, tears, blood. “...I don't see anything!”

 

“That's because...” His voice cracks, loudly. He blushes and yanks at his shirt collar. “The blood's on the b-back of your trousers...”

 

Roxy feels puzzled. Jane, who was several feet away during this exchange, suddenly drops her stick, running up to stand beside them. “W-what was that you said, Jake?”

 

Jake shrugs, gesticulating awkwardly, his face a flame-broiled red. Jane pales, covering her mouth. “Roxy, please turn around.”

 

The Strider girl obeys, still unsure what's going on. Suddenly, Jane grabs her hand and starts tugging her towards the house. “Hey, what-?”

 

“You got your period,” Jane whispers. “Do you know what that is?”

 

Roxy starts to feel a little dizzy. She knows that word. Her mom explained it to her, she thinks, once. “That's... when you bleed from...” She sucks in a deep breath, unwilling to continue, to say it out loud. She feels horrified; _Jake_ , of all people, saw blood leaking out of her crotch. There's so much he could see it while she was wearing pants! She thought her mom said she'd only bleed a little bit, and not for a long time, until she was twelve, at least!

 

She wracks her brains trying to remember what else her mom told her when they get to the porch steps. Dirk looks up in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

 

“Just stuff,” Jane says, blushing darkly. Dirk frowns, standing to follow them inside. “N-no, don't!”

 

He stills. “Why not?”

 

“It's private _girl stuff!”_ Jane croaks. “You can't come!”

 

Dirk seems to register what's going on. “...Jade will be able to help, right?”

 

“...That's what I'm hoping.” Jane's hand comes to her mouth, a nervous gesture. “I mean, I know what to do, but! But I'm not an expert!” She drags Roxy inside the house before the blond girl can beg her brother to come along. She doesn't care that Dirk doesn't have periods; it's weird, having to share this mortifying experience with somebody she only just met a week ago.

 

John, predictably, sputters when he hears Jane whisper what is happening to Jade. Jade, however, is perfectly sober. She gives Roxy a tender smile, and is the first person to treat her as if this is an entirely normal event. “Let's get you cleaned up. Jane, run to Roxy's room and grab her a pair of pants and some new underwear. Roxy, wait for me in the bathroom; I have something that'll help.”

 

Roxy sits on the rim of the tub, fully clothed. She doesn't want to strip down and start cleaning herself up, even though she feels gross sitting in bloody shorts. She doesn't know what to do; can she take a bath? With the blood mess up the water?? Will she be in a whole tub of her blood??? She's on the verge of a mental breakdown when Jade and Jane return. The adult takes the clothes from the younger girl and tells her to go, she'll take care of this.

 

Jade locks the door. “Here. Let me show you something.”

 

Setting the pants Jane brought on the sink's ledge, Jade holds up a pair of panties, a strip of cloth, and a small pair of safety pins. “Watch.” She pins the cloth carefully to the inside of the panties so that it catches the blood. She explains to Roxy how to most safely arrange the pins, how to align the cloth correctly. “At the end of the day, it is very important to clean this cloth thoroughly with soap and water. I can get you another one to use while this one is drying, because you'll need to sleep with this, too, and the bleeding will persist for a few days.”

 

Roxy whimpers slightly. “And then it'll be over, right? Once this is over, I won't have to bleed again?”

 

Jade smiles at her sympathetically. She explains that, no; this is a week-long occurrence, one that will happen once a month for the rest of her life, although she is young enough that she may bleed more or less frequently than that. She says Roxy is not _too_ young to be having her period. Most girls get it at twelve or thirteen.

 

Roxy frets nonetheless. “Are you sure I'm not a freak?”

 

“No, no, of course you're not! You're just an early bloomer.”

 

Roxy does not entirely appreciate this metaphor. Especially not with blood spreading nastily on her favorite shorts like a rusty-smelling, red flower.

 

→

 

They want to write back to their parents, and John confesses he only _might_ know how to contact them. He says he'll take care of the delivery of the letter and the inscription on the envelope, but he can't promise it'll get to them. The Strider kids insist on trying.

 

Dirk does the writing while Roxy dictates various things he should add. She tells him she doesn't want them to know she got her period, but Jade insists this is an important detail her parents will want to know about. Dirk touches on it only sparingly, a compromise, he thinks, except for the fact that Roxy still feels utterly mortified that they'll know at all, no matter how normal a bodily function it is.

 

They tell their parents that they haven't started school yet, but will return next week. They say the city is too bright and yellow to look directly at sometimes. They say they miss Derse, even if it's in ruins.

 

To their delight, they receive a response from their parents a week and a half later. Nowhere in their mother's looping script is there a mention of Feferi, but she showers Roxy with sympathy and praise for her “ascension to adulthood.” Roxy doesn't feel like she's grown up, or even like she's beginning to grow up; she just feels like her stomach hurts a lot and she wants to lay down all day. Roxy detects remorse in her mother's words, a regret that she isn't there to experience this with her daughter right now. While Roxy finds that somewhat silly, she agrees that she wishes her own mom had been the own to show her what to do. Even if Jade is a nice person, it's just not quite the same.

 

Dirk is annoyed by the lack of word on politics. This letter is decidedly more censored than the last. And again, the return address is to Derse's capital's post office. He nearly crumples this one up, but Roxy stops him before he can ruin the paper, saving the letter herself.

 

After this letter, only one or two more come, before trickling out of existence entirely. The Strider siblings enter a limbo where it's almost as if their parents are dead. Dirk says it's just like when Dave went off to war; there's hope, a pathetic spark of it, but not much.

 

“They haven't abandoned us,” Roxy says, firmly. “It's just really dangerous right now. But they'll survive – we've already lived through a war!”

 

“I just wish they'd come with us,” Dirk mutters, pulling his bedcovers over his head. She watches his form for a few minutes, the hazy stretch of time and his stillness eventually convincing her that he must have fallen asleep. She leaves, for some reason thinking of their mother's last bedtime story to them. The girl who vomited sea water.

 

She hopes Dirk won't drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear 2 god if i see any of the period scene on wtffanfiction i will hunt u down and gut u  
> also ngl I put that scene in because it seems like the awful kind of shit a kid with ovaries will have to deal with the moment they are separated from parents who can guide them thru that life-changing moment. Plus I actually did research for that scene so congrats now u know about old school sanitary napkins and the origin of the phrase “on the rag”


	8. Act 2, Part 3: Parents and Politics

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Three: Parents and Politics

* * *

 

Desperate, Roxy asks John what her parents were like as kids. She's expecting funny anecdotes, long rants about this quirk or that of her parents' that drove him wild. But his replies are poor. He fumbles over quick explanations, generic comments. We were friends. We had fun. They were good students. Jade is back at her own house on a daily basis, busy at work, and so Roxy can't ask her.

 

School is hard to get into the swing of. With the war and travel stunting their education, it's been a long time since Roxy and Dirk have had real lessons. John is even considering keeping them home with tutors and then returning them to the private school with Jane in the fall. But, they manage; Rose was always good about keeping her children ahead in math and writing, whereas Roxy and Dirk have a natural predilection to the sciences that puts them above and beyond what's being taught at their Prospitian academy. After some initial struggle, the only classes the siblings continue to have trouble in are their history courses. Roxy struggles with facts that have been warped from a Dersite to a Prospitian point of view, but keeps her discontent on this matters to a silent confusion. Dirk, on the other hand, gets a reputation as an upstart. While he quietly excels in all of his other classes, the lazy generalizations his history professor makes about Derse prompt him to fight back angrily. One day, he even gets sent down to the headmaster's office. After school that day, he tells a horrified Roxy, “It wasn't my fault! You should've heard the lies that pompous idiot was spouting about our country!” He grits his teeth. “That idiot called the Black Queen a tyrant. Please! Prospit is a cesspool of tyrants; every last king they've had has done nothing but crush the lower classes like god damn ants in their fists!”

 

Nevertheless, John scolds him. “You need to try to be nicer to your teachers. I don't know how they do things in Derse, but here, respecting authority helps foster-”

 

Dirk storms out of the room before he can finish. Roxy and Jane train their eyes on the floor. They know John won't lose his temper – he doesn't even seem to _have_ one – but the situation is still awkward enough to witness. Roxy notes that a quavering voice isn't all puberty has given Dirk; she's noticed for a while that he seems angrier in general. It's strange to witness. Their family doesn't tend to be quite so temperamental, but Jane says you can't fight hormones and the havoc they wreak on your feelings.

 

“Man,” John mutters after Dirk has left. “Sometimes I think that kid'd be happier if his parents sent him to live with Karkat.”

 

Roxy's ears perk up at the sound of that name. It's familiar to her, somehow. “Who's that?”

 

“Oh...” John winces, gesturing as if to physically wave her question away. “You'll meet him soon enough. He'll probably remind you of home – he's quite the bleeding heart, beneath his rough exterior.”

 

Roxy ponders this. The name strikes her as funny – she wonders what Karkat is. The name sounds Alternian, but you can never count on what kind of name a human is going to have. There are so few left that human culture seems to have been entirely lost in favor of assimilation with trolls and carapaces. Trolls came from Alternia and carapaces are native to the Skaian continent, but few can say where the humans came from originally. Roxy wonders if the same famine befell their home country that befell the Alternian Empire, forcing it to disband. She'd ask one of her history teachers, if Dirk hadn't convinced her they were all hacks.

 

She wanders off to read one of the books Jane has loaned her. There are carapaces on every cover, sometimes even black ones. But they're always the villain. Jane's favorite series fits this racial cliché, and stars a group of white, carapace men who work as detectives in a fantasy city. They sleuth everything from inter-dimensional portals to the wrong-doings of their black-shelled, gangster rivals... or, at least, that's what Roxy thinks they sleuth. Honestly, they haven't done much sleuthing at all in the books she's read thus far. What they _do_ actually do is a lot of goofing off and breaking valuables and solving puzzles. Which, if you have to stretch it, puzzles are like mini-mysteries... Sort of. Roxy's glad for the fantasy elements, at least, although these books' plots get very confusing at times.

 

Dirk, naturally, won't touch the books. Roxy shrugs his disapproval off, figuring she can still enjoy them so long as she acknowledges that certain parts of them are problematic.

 

→

 

“As an act of good will, the ivory carapaces decided to help their less privileged, ebony counterparts by relocating them to neighborhoods where they could be independent as they so long desired. Prospitian government was smart enough to realize that the blacks lacked of preparation for professional jobs, and so decided that the blacks should have more heavily industrialized sectors of our kingdom, the eastern Derse, where there were plenty of labor and other low-skill jobs available. With black carapaces and working class humans separated from everyone else, content in their new neighborhoods, Prospit's cities and towns were finally safe from the riots that laid ravaged them for so long.

 

“In addition, because they were brimming with the sort of adolescent rebellion expected of such young peoples – I laugh because they were only recently established as their own nationality, and yet they also acted quite like children, making this a worthy double entendre – our eight White King allowed Derse to become its own, independent country.

 

“But such squalor! The people of Derse had no idea how to care for a country, and so fell victim to wealthy Alternian emigres and their savvy business knowledge. Of course, while the sea-dwellers may be ruthless in their business, it is important to acknowledge what their organization and good breeding did to strengthen Derse's young economy...”

 

A loud _slam_ comes from the back of the room, causing the teacher to halt in what he was saying, the chalk slipping from his hands and scraping a nasty, screeching white line from the notes he was writing on the board. The teacher is a skinny, rather short white carapace man who has been teaching in this private school for just over a year. He is fresh out of college and brimming with the naïve sort of nationalism most young history teachers in Prospit have, the sort that will eventually decay to bitterness. He has not been around long enough to know, like his older colleagues, how to deal with badly-behaved students. Most of those he has dealt with this far in his career are the spoiled brats of rich people, who at their worse eat snacks and trade notes in class, thankfully reserving their cruelest gestures for their fellow students. The teacher is tempted not to turn around, knowing full well which student pounded his fists down on his desk.

 

To the blackboard, the teacher says, “Mister Strider, please do not disrupt my lesson, you will only inconvenience the other students.”

 

“Maybe if you taught the material correctly, I wouldn't be forced to cut in and correct you,” the human boy quips. His classmates trade eye-rolls and unkind snickers. He reddens at this, but ignores his peers, determined to do what is right. “The reason black carapaces rioted in the first place was because the white ones refused to give them the rights they deserved. They couldn't go to the same schools, they couldn't own businesses-”

 

“Well, perhaps they could have worked harder to make their own schools better. Perhaps they could have voted for better laws.”

 

“ _They couldn't vote,_ as a history teacher you _must_ know that!”

 

The teacher sighs. “Fine. But they could've _at least_ written to their local government.” He smiles lazily at this preteen who has the audacity to argue with an adult. “Surely you have nothing against the relocation of the black carapaces? It allowed for them to eventually gain their independence, after all. You wouldn't have a home if not for that.”

 

Dirk's fists are clenched at his sides, trembling uncontrollably. “While that's true, Prospit didn't give Derse an ounce of infrastructure! All those black carapaces, all those lower class humans, they had nothing to support themselves with! You act as if it was their own fault, their own naivety-”

 

“What a big word.” The teacher squints. “Can you define 'infrastructure' for me, Dirk?”

 

The human boy sputters amidst the laughter of his classmates. “You're an adult! You should know!”

 

“Of course _I_ know infrastructure refers to roads, facilities, rail lines – which, by the way, Derse _did_ have because of Prospit, because as I mentioned, it used to be the country's industrial sector. Are you saying it was all too difficult for the Dersites to lay down a few extra roads as they needed?”

 

Dirk grinds his teeth. “I know what that word means!”

 

“No you don't,” the kid sitting next to him crows. “You're so full of it!” He doesn't bid the Dersite to stop, though. He and the other students find this spectacle far more entertaining than their teacher's cocky, boring lectures.

 

Dirk's face gets redder as his peers taunt him, but he won't be silenced, not yet. “Hospitals,” he says. “Derse had only one hospital, and it was understaffed when the whites who lived in the area were offered jobs elsewhere, in 'safer,' whiter districts. Derse had no clinics, it had no large or small-scale system of government, no police system or military or anything. It was chaos. Prospit didn't give Derse independence out of benevolence, it cut Derse off like a tumor and left it to die!”

 

This climactic denouement would have made a better impression, had Dirk's voice not cracked several octaves on the word “die.” This mortifying display of adolescence sends the classroom into chaos; the students pound on their desks with laughter, pointing and giggling and refusing to listen to the angered shouts of their teacher. Fuming that he has lost control of his class, the teacher demands Dirk get out, only to find that the boy has already disappeared amidst the confusion.

 

→

 

Dirk lays in bed for hours after school. Roxy could've sworn he was crying, but when she's finally brave enough to enter his room, his face is dry and as white as a sheet. He describes the scene to her much as it appears above, and she adores him too dearly to suspect (as John plainly does) that the tale may be fraught with hyperbole. If anything, Dirk retains the emotional truth of the event; it was humiliating, it was terrifying, and it was infuriating. He shoves his face into a pillow to sigh in anguish. “I hate it here. Everyone's so blind to reality. I want to go home!”

 

Roxy pats her brother's back gently. “It's okay, Dirk.”

 

“No, it isn't. Everyone is so shitty!”

 

“Jane and Jake and...”

 

“They're Prospitians, too! They don't understand, they'll never understand!”

 

Roxy hopes her smile is as gentle and reassuring as the one their mother gave them when they were sad, but she has the feeling it is far more awkward. “ _I'm_ not sucky,” Roxy insists. “Mom and Dad and Fef, and all of our friends at home, they're not sucky.” Roxy throws her arms around the lump of quilts that is her brother. “They're proof that not everyone in the world is bad!”

 

“But they're so far away,” Dirk moans. “And they're from Derse, of course they understand!”

 

Roxy snorts. “We knew racist people in Derse. Remember Cronus's guardian, and Equius! Plus you're wrong; not _everyone_ I mentioned is far away.” She hugs her brother tighter. “ _I'm_ here.”

 

Dirk doesn't throw her off. He doesn't show his face, either, leaving it buried in his pillow. Roxy thinks it's a wonder he can breathe. “...How do you stay so positive, Roxy? How do you just not give up on this place?”

 

Roxy smiles. “Because, like I just said. Not everybody's bad. And some people are just bad because they've never been told how to be good.” She presses her face into the quilt, where she thinks her brother's shoulder is. “I know you miss home. I do too, Dirk. But we still got each other. And think – there are tons of people like us in Prospit right now, people who are far away from their families and feeling out of place here! We can find them and make friends, and they'll understand how great Derse is because that's where they come from, too!”

 

She scrambles to the pillow, waiting patiently for her brother to show his face. After a few seconds, he finally emerges, face red with the heat of the fabric, his hair messed up, a reluctant smile on his face. “You're so mature sometimes, Roxy,” he mutters. He starts to sit up, prompting Roxy to roll down and lay her head on his lap. He chuckles at her. The weight on her heart is relieved considerably at seeing her brother happy like this. This is how it's supposed to be, the two of them, so close, a team. They need each other, the love, the trust, to navigate this strange world they've been plunged into...

 

Suddenly, the door creaks open. The room was previously lighted only by the sunlight that managed to sneak through the curtains, but now light funnels from the hallway around the form of an adult – John.

 

“Uh.” They can't see his expression that well, the way his back is to the light, darkening his front. As Roxy squints, though, she thinks he looks very surprised to see them like this.

 

“Uh...” John turns his face to the side. “Dinner's ready, if you want.” He starts to slip away, to back out of the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him.

 

“What a weirdo,” Dirk says when he's gone. He slowly makes his way out of bed. “Come on, Roxy. Let's see what Jane made.”

 

→

 

Several days later, they meet Karkat.

 

The kids are sitting in a circle on Dirk's bed, discussing their plans for the rapidly approaching summer break when they are startled by a loud slam that reverberates as far as Dirk's room. Shortly after abusing their front door, the intruder stomps around the house, screaming John's name. The Strider siblings look at each other in alarm and rush out of the door, only vaguely noting Jane's wince and her mutter of, “This guy again...”

 

The kids run out onto the balcony that overlooks the first floor, gripping the white rungs as they strain to glimpse the loud visitor. They see John emerge from the kitchen, rubbing his head and grimacing, about the time a troll decked in a severe maroon tunic and riding boots storms towards him.

 

“Karkat,” John whines. “First of all, have you heard of _knocking?_ And second, don't yell so loud, you'll deafen my whole family!”

 

“You're lucky that's _all_ I'm doing!” the troll shouts. He's shorter than John with a wild shock of black hair, through which poke two of the nubbiest, most pathetic horns Roxy's ever seen. He grinds his teeth as he points an accusing, brown-gloved finger at John. “What the fuck is this about you cozying up with His Demented Highness? Have you no sense of decency?! Have you completely lost the last ounce of whatever half-assed standards you call moral scruples?!”

 

John blinks owlishly at Karkat as if he didn't hear a single word the other man said. Which would require some incredible ignoring skills, Roxy notes, since those words were shouted directly in his face. John smiles at his visitor. “Hey, are you hungry? Do you want something to eat? Jane made a fresh pie just this morning!”

 

Karkat sputters like the other man has just tossed a bucket of freezing water on him. “What the _fuck_ , Egbert, did you not hear what I just said?! At least try to defend what miniscule honor you have left, or agree with my conjecture that you're a rancid shitbag traitor, or say _something_ that acknowledges I'm not just talking to a fucking wall here!”

 

John nods. “It's strawberry. The kids tell me it's very good. I could even heat it up, if you'd like.”

 

Roxy turns to Jane just as the troll is sent angrily sputtering all over again. “Hey, Jane,” she whispers. “What's up with your uncle?”

 

Jane shrugs in reply. “I don't know. He always changes the subject like that when Karkat yells at him. I think it's to calm him down or something.”

 

“It doesn't really seem to be working,” Roxy notes, watching Karkat stomp into the kitchen. John looks up briefly to see the three kids looking down at him. He makes a dramatic show of looking exasperated, pointing at his visitor's retreating form and making gagging motions, before following him.

 

“So that's Karkat,” Roxy murmurs to herself. She can't help but feel incredibly disappointed. John said Dirk would prefer to live with him, but Roxy can't imagine how her brother would ever be happy in the company of such a jerk! Dirk's temper definitely isn't as bad as _that_ guy's, if that's what John's implying. “What a scary guy.”

 

Jane shakes her head. “Not really. Once you get used to all of the yelling and cursing, he's not that tough. He just tends to...” She searches for the word. “...He _emotes bigger_ than most people.”

 

“I'll bet,” Dirk snorts, speaking for the first time. The three kids stare at the entrance to the kitchen. They can't see into it from here, although they can hear Karkat talking just fine. The melodious screech of politics reaches their ears. “...Let's go down and check it out.”

 

Jane makes a face. “Oh... I don't know...”

 

But Dirk is already moving, and wherever he goes, Roxy does, too. Jane hesitates only for a moment before heaving a sigh, defeated by peer pressure. Shoving her glasses up her nose, she follows her friends to the stairs.

 

When they enter the kitchen, John is happily ignoring Karkat's rants. He goes about fixing a plate of pie and ice cream for his friend, noting, “I don't care much for sweets myself, so it's great to have two more kids in the house. That way Jane can bake more stuff without worrying about everything going to waste.” He smiles when he sees them all come in and waves. He addresses them expertly over Karkat's shouts. “Do you all want some??”

 

Dirk shakes his head. He makes a point of sitting down next to the troll, who pauses in his tirade to look at him with suspicion. “...Who're you? You don't look like an Egbert.”

 

“That's because I'm a Strider,” Dirk replies. He points to his sister. “And she is too.”

 

Karkat raises one bushy eyebrow at John, who elaborates with great trepidation. “Rose... and Dave's...”

 

The troll nods briskly. John winced as he delivered the news, but Karkat seems not to share his bizarre tendency to shudder at the mere mention of the Strider couple. In fact, Karkat does not seem all that interested in the kids. “They look just like their parents and all that blathering, painfully obvious bullshit that seems to pass for complimentary. Whatever. John, _listen_ to me, you _cannot_ trust Kurloz!” He pounds his fist on the table. “This is incredibly serious, so stop ignoring me!”

 

John makes a gesture halfway between a shrug and a scratch of the neck. “Karkat, I've told you before, it's what's best for my family. The Egberts have always had a place in the royal court, and with the White King gone, you bet I'm going to hold on to the position Makara's offered me! I'm just lucky he didn't turn me down...”

 

Karkat scowls. “Yeah, okay, let's just ignore what he and his disgusting religion have done to the lowbloods. And the carapaces. And oh, yeah, the humans! He doesn't actually give a shit about you, John, he's just excusing you and your 'biological inferiority' so long as you're useful to him!”

 

“Yeah, well! Fine! So long as he's keeping me and my family safe, I don't care what hoops he makes me jump through or what racist stuff he thinks about me, because yes, Karkat, I realize he thinks humans are shit! I realize that humans are the minority, because you don't honestly think I don't noticethat I'm one of _five humans_ working in the government?” He doesn't look angry so much as exasperated. “Because I didn't make that number up, Karkat. Five. There are _five_ of us, in the _whole_ city, probably the whole country, and I'm the only one who _looks like me!_ ” His hands fly to his face. “I'm the only one who doesn't turn red at the slightest exposure to sunlight! So!” He fumbles with a conclusion. He's not a person who is used to orchestrating angry outbursts of his own, Roxy thinks.

“So, yeah!” he finishes. “Stop yelling in front of the kids.”

 

Karkat reddens so thoroughly with repressed rants that Roxy wouldn't be surprised if smoke started rising from his ears. It strikes her that there's something weird about his looks – like more than just his horns or his dull, omnivore's teeth, which she watches him grind in fury. She ponders over what it is, that's so strange about him, but when he catches her staring, she looks quickly away, frightened.

 

He seems to soften after that. The blood disappears from his face and he shoves a fork begrudgingly into the dessert placed in front of him.

 

After a pseudo-silence (in which Karkat grumbles under his breath the entire time, but not at anyone in particular, and while everyone else remains quiet), Dirk asks, “Are you a knight? Your uniform looks similar to my dad's.”

 

Karkat shakes his head. “I _used_ to be a knight, but I left those fascists behind before the new regime could corrode my thinkpan.” He pauses to take an overly vicious bite of pie. “I refused to return these, though,” he says, yanking on his riding cape. “As far as I'm concerned, these are mine forever. They're the warmest things I own and I'm not giving them back!” It seems a very silly act of rebellion, but Karkat seems one hundred percent serious about it. Or maybe that's just the way he talks. Even Karkat's regular speaking voice is pretty loud. He doesn't seem to have any volume control, making everything he says sound aggressive.

 

Dirk nods. “Hmm. Can you tell me what's so bad about the new regime-?”

 

“ _No!_ ” They look up in alarm to John, who seems to falter under their gaze. “Uh. No. No politics! Not right now! Not with kids in the room!”

 

Dirk scowls at him for this. Karkat mirrors this glare at John tenfold. “You've always been way too easily manipulated, Egbert. When we were kids, it was your step-mother, when we were were in school, it was Vriska, and now it's the god damn king controlling you like some gangly wooden man toy! Except you're not an inanimate object, you're a fucking living coward.”

 

“Um.” Jane's voice is a squeak. “I'm sorry, I think I have homework...” She hurries away from the table, an expression of discomfort on her face. It occurs to Roxy that, between Jade and Karkat, she's probably subjected to a lot of adults squabbling in front of her. Such a thing has never bothered Roxy, but she can't blame Jane for being upset.

 

As Jane leaves, John shoots Karkat a look – not an angry look, but definitely an unhappy one – and, to Roxy's surprise, the troll seems to wither guiltily beneath it. Roxy, feeling bad, ingeniously diffuses the situation by requesting a slice of pie. While she waits for John to get it for her, she turns to the troll at her side. “Do you have any good stories about my parents? John won't tell me any, and I'm dying to know what they were like!”

 

Karkat side-eyes John, and for a minute, Roxy's fearful that he'll start another fight. But he doesn't. “Give me something specific. I can't just pull random stories out of my ass, we spent way too much time together for me to go through it _all._ ”

 

This thrills Roxy, but she isn't sure where to start. What _does_ she want to know...?

 

“Tell her about the time we went camping, when we were sixteen,” John pipes up unexpectedly. He comes and sits down at the table. “Remember, you, me, Rezi, Kan, Gamzee and them...” He trails off at a look from Karkat.

 

“...You know I'm not speaking to those two assholes right now,” Karkat says, voice laced with disdain.

 

“Oh, crap! You're right.” John worries his lower lip between his teeth. “We could skip that story, it was just a suggestion! Or I could tell it...”

 

“No, I'll tell it.” Karkat shakes his head. “I tell it better than you do, anyway.”

 

He's about to open his mouth again, perhaps to make another comment, perhaps to begin recounting the memory, when John interrupts with a strangled noise. “Just!! Keep it clean, okay?” He gives Karkat a meaningful look. Karkat rolls his eyes. “I won't say anything to offend your delicate sensibilities, Egbert, so quit your whining!”

 

Karkat launches into the tale with a million expletives and rage so potent Roxy could've sworn the events happened just yesterday. In a way, Karkat is right; he really is a better story-teller than John. He creates drama out of the dullest circumstances and makes them bright and entertaining. Despite all the bad language, he must be following John's demands; the human man never interrupts to tell him to stop, falling into giggles at the shared memories instead.

 

“Aw, man,” John snickers. “I forgot how fun that was...”

 

“The guy whose pillow you coated with melted sugar puffs wasn't amused,” Karkat snarls. “Bugs _swarmed my tent!_ ”

 

“I didn't mean _that_ ,” John insists. “Well. I mean, once we got past the crowded tents and the lack of blankets and stuff, pranking you guys _was_ pretty fun. But I mean Rose and Dave! I forgot how fun _they_ were.”

 

“Yeah.” Karkat scrapes his fork on an empty plate, obviously thinking about something. “We've lost touch with a lot of people over the years. You'd think some of those fuckers could at least write...”

 

“I know, and it sucks, but you can't always predict _what's_ going to separate you from people,” John points out. “I mean, it's mostly been politics, true, but I don't think I ever thought Tavros would go into the cavalry... It's just such a labor-intensive life for, you know...”

 

Karkat snorts. “It's a wonder he hasn't died yet. And I'm not talking about his legs like I'm sure you are, oh King of Dancing Around Touchy Subjects. Nitram has never had any sense or any courage. If we hadn't left Alternia as kids, he'd never have survived. I can guarantee you that.”

 

“And Vriska! She was always so good at that mind control stuff, you'd think _she,_ not Sollux, would end up a successful mage, but she just disappeared off the face of the planet...”

 

He looks deeply disappointed by this. Roxy feels that some of these names are familiar, but for the most part, their strangeness and quantity only serves to remind her of how little of her parents' childhood she is privy to. She's leaning on the table with her elbows, her head cradled in her crossed arms, gazing up at the adults as they become caught up in their memories. She wishes Jane had stayed; she's sure seeing these two so friendly together (as friendly as Karkat can get, anyway) wouldn't upset her at all.

 

Karkat's scoff of disdain brings Roxy out of her thoughts. “Why are you surprised Sollux is good at what he does?”

 

“Well, he never had a good grip on his psychic abilities when we were kids! Whereas Vriska, she was such a natural talent. That's blue bloods for you, though.”

 

Karkat's eyes narrow. Roxy senses something bad is going to happen. Beside her, her brother sighs loudly, distractingly. “I thought psychic abilities were common to trolls.”

 

The adults turn to him. Roxy isn't sure what Dirk was trying to accomplish with that comment, but if they get yelled at, or if John and Karkat's friendship ends forever, she knows who she's blaming for it.

 

“Well-” John starts, but Karkat cuts him off almost immediately.

 

“They are common,” Karkat says. “For _low bloods_. And usually it's regarded as some learning disadvantage. Because, surprise surprise, when you can't control the influx of visions and voices funneling their way into your thinkpan, it becomes _just a little difficult_ to focus on multiplication tables. But Vriska's a fucking blue blood, so when _she_ started developing her psychic powers, everybody shit their pants and acted like it was the second coming of the Sufferer.”

 

“High blood psychics are stronger, though,” John points out. “So it kind of _is_ a big-”

 

“Is your fucking brain pan rotted through to its core?” Karkat snarls. “High blood psychics are better because they can _afford training to control it!”_ He shakes his head, disgusted. “And then they take that power and they use it to fucking crush low bloods. Sollux is lucky he got a grip on himself, because fuck knows nobody else was looking out for him.”

 

“Wow,” Dirk says, wonder in his voice. “I never knew any of that.” It makes sense – Roxy needed special tutoring on the side to learn magic, and she supposes if one couldn't afford it, they'd get left behind.

 

“Well, now you do.” Karkat gives a curt nod. He seems satisfied that the human boy has chosen to take his comment as an education rather than an invitation for argument.

 

→

 

John escorts Karkat to the door by himself, urging the kids to stay in the kitchen. Naturally, this prompts them to quietly sneak as close to the foyer as they can without getting caught, so they can listen in on whatever the adults want to talk about without them. So, waiting until the men have been gone long enough, they sneak out of the kitchen and hide behind a large table with an ugly, iron horse statue mounted on the top of it. They can't really see much, but they can hear.

 

And it is cryptic.

 

John's voice. “It was nice to see you, even if you did spend half the time yelling at me.” He lowers his voice significantly, but the kids can still hear him easily with concentration. “...And... I just want to thank you for, you know. Not telling them. I know it's not a big deal to trolls...”

 

They hear Karkat snort derisively. “It may be no big deal to me, but I'm capable of respecting other people's cultures, John. What do you take me for?”

 

“Still, thank you...”

 

They hear the door open, but Karkat's voice sounds. He isn't leaving yet. “Those kids. They're here because of what's going on in Derse, right?”

 

“Yeah. I told you that.”

 

“Were they there for the siege? Did they see her...?” Karkat's managing to be impressively quiet.

 

“The empress? No. Rose and Dave wrote to me from a safe place, asking me to take the kids. They got an anonymous tip and ran out before the castle was attacked.”

 

“Makes sense. I guess they'd be dead if they'd stayed.” A pause. “You _have_ to let them talk about it at some point, you know. You can't push this 'no politics' rule forever, not when they're six, six and a half fucking sweeps at _least_. Even if they didn't see the battle, they were in the middle of god damn history. Survivors were so fucking rattled that day that there were reports of monster sightings all over the city – we here in Prospit didn't even know if we could trust other reports of what had happened in Derse with the way people babbled.”

 

“Monster?” John sounds genuinely alarmed. “I never heard...”

 

“Because it was bullshit, of course, and only like, five lunatics claimed to see it. You're a human – you think an invasion of grey-skinned, goat-horned fucks reducing your friends and neighbors to gore wouldn't fucking destroy you psychologically?”

 

The conversation peters out after this. The kids hear a sound like a rustling of clothes – a hug, one which, from the sound of it, Karkat is annoyed by – and then the door shuts. And then John heaves a huge sigh. The Strider siblings look to each other and silently agree to sneak back towards the kitchen before they make themselves known to John. That way, he won't know they were listening.

 

When they get back to the foyer, they find John slumped against the front door. He looks exhausted. “That guy...” he mutters. “He sure likes to argue. I hope he didn't bother you two too much...”

 

Dirk shrugs. “I didn't think anything he said was unreasonable.”

 

“I'm not surprised you liked him,” John grumbles. He shakes his head as if to deny he just said that out loud. “Anyway, it's really late – I'm heading up to bed. Don't stay up too late. Clean up if you make a mess.”

 

→

 

That night, Roxy sneaks into Dirk's room at night, to lay in bed with him. It feels like she hasn't done this in forever, but it's only been a few weeks. “What did you think about Karkat?”

 

Even in this darkness, he is close enough that she can feel him shrug. “I wasn't that impressed. He wasn't terrible, but he did a lot of unnecessary yelling.”

 

“Yeah.” Roxy shifts. “...What do you think the thing was? That they're not telling us?”

 

Dirk folds his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. “They said it was something trolls aren't bothered by, but humans are.”

 

“Violence?” Roxy suggests, remembering something her mom said once. “Trolls are more violent than humans, right?”

 

“Maybe...” She can practically hear the gears in her brother's head turning. “You know, I can see them hiding a violent memory from us because we're kids. Even though we've lived through two wars...”

 

Roxy sighs, nestling her head into the fabric of her brother's pajamas. It makes sense, as John really is overprotective sometimes. He won't even talk politics in front of them! “And it has to do with our parents.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“But what?”

 

They lay quietly together for a while.

 

“Hey Dirk?”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“I didn't hear about any monsters.” Her brother doesn't answer. “In Derse, when we got back, I didn't...”

 

He yawns loudly. “Mom and Dad didn't really keep us informed.”

 

“...Karkat's right, isn't he, Dirk? Monsters aren't real.”

 

“Naaw. Lusii and drones and stuff got extinct when the disease fell on-” the 'a' prompts him to yawn, “-Alternia. The only monsters left are. People...” His final words are mumbled. Within seconds, his breathing evens out. Roxy pokes him gently, and he doesn't swat her away. Definitely asleep. Her eyelashes feeling heavy, his yawns contagiously wracking her own body, she decides it'd be a good idea to join him.

 

A myriad of nonsensical thoughts dance through her head. She drifts off to sleep, to dreams of fairy women who steal the fire of people's magic. They sprint off into the night, clutching the white globes in their hands like delicate infants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if it seems like I demonize john. He's a shitty host. He's very insensitive and he doesn't like heavy conflict. But he's not evil, or even a bad person, and he really IS looking out for Jane and himself in the safest way he knows how. Plus, I'm pissed at myself for not covering human race enough in this fic series. I'm all over about the dynamics of troll culture, but not a peep about humans! I suck! So I'm trying my hardest to incorporate that. This fic's sequel (and the final main installment of the series) will probably feature more human racial issues and more gender stuff and touch upon lgbt issues, too, due to who my two main characters are going to be. (hint: the main characters of the next sequel will be neither dirk nor roxy, nor anyone else in the strider clan, although Roxy and her family will show up. The main character is someone who's in Something Rotten, but not this chapter, starring alongside someone who's yet to appear in this fic series at all...)


	9. Act 2, Part 4: Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may've noticed a while ago that i changed the authorship of this fic. Tosa is still me, of course, but i felt using my tumblr username, jarasmod, was getting to be pretty pointless, since i don't really use that tumblr account anymore, whereas Tosa has been my fanfic pseudonym since i was in middle school
> 
> also sorry for skipping last week's update otl i literally have 19 chapters of this fic already written but because so much i finished i tend to forget i need to upload the chapters online haha

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Four: Doctor

* * *

 

As the summer heat encroaches with the ending school year, the fire of Dirk's anger seems to rise with it. But it comes with a curious side effect; every angry rant, every reactionary fire, seems to leave him exhausted afterwards. His anger during the school day leaves him bedridden in the afternoon, to the point where Roxy fears he is not sulking at all, but coming down with some fatal disease.

 

“The mothergrub,” Dirk says when she enters his room. “Do you know what that is?”

 

Roxy wracks her brains. She remembers reading about it in a beginner's biology book her Mom bought her when she was little. She adored that book, the pictures, especially. It'd had everything from the anatomy of humans to the function of a carapace shell to the reproductive systems of trolls... in easily-understood language, of course. The book went up in the fire with all of her other possessions, the pages lost with the bodies of those court members who were present for the siege on the castle.

 

She shakes her head to clear it of these morbid thoughts. “Uh. That's the thing trolls need to reproduce, right? They put... DNA or something in it, because they can't hold babies in their own bodies...”

 

“Yeah.” Dirk makes an effort to sit up somewhat. “There are only two left in existence.”

 

Roxy nods. She knows.

 

“And the one in Derse... it's sickly. It's been sickly for a long time, but it's been holding on.”

 

Roxy nods again.

 

“It's hard for trolls to reproduce in Derse. They have to jump through hoops, and promise to care for whatever offspring is created. There were lots of orphans in Derse for a long time, until the queen insisted on that rule. And there were adoption programs, to ensure those orphans left behind in Alternia could have a chance at getting a parent in their own caste, because the lusii, the creatures that traditionally raised young trolls, are gone.”

 

“I know all that,” Roxy says with a sigh. “Why are we talking about this?”

 

“ _Because._ ” Dirk's hands clench weakly in the sheets, a weary scowl twisting his features. “Today, my teacher said...”

 

“Dirk.” Roxy gets close so she can take her brother's hands, with the aim of unclenching them. “Don't get yourself mad all over again.”

 

His fingers twitch with the effort to splay out, to unclench themselves. “My teacher called Derse selfish for wanting access to Prospit's healthy mothergrub. Even though we'd pay taxes for use of her. Even though our's is on the brink of death, even though there's not a single jade troll in our...”

 

She pats his arm soothingly. “Dirk, it's okay. I agree with you. Your teacher's a jerk.”

 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. But when he's calm, he proceeds. “He also said the air in Derse...”

 

“Is foggy and polluted. But that's how Prospit left it.” She smiles. “See? I got ya!”

 

He looks tired, suddenly. He nods. “Yeah.” She wonders if he's disappointed by how easy it is with her, she wonders if he's disappointed by the lack of fight she puts up.

 

He slips his hands into hers. “It's difficult, when people won't listen. So thanks.”

 

Roxy nods, but she feels bad. It's as if fighting this place is killing her brother. And what's worse... she just doesn't care as much as he does. When people are ignorant, it bothers her, but not so much that she wants to shout at them, or that it renders her physically ill. And yet, Roxy's own comfort with people, her ability to blend in with the opinions of the crowd, her health... it doesn't make her feel better than Dirk. She feels instead like she is betraying her parents and her country and, most of all, because he's here, reminding her of it, Dirk. She feels like a coward next to her brother.

 

John comes in later at Roxy's insistence to check on Dirk's health. He hums, frowning as he touches the boy's forehead, and Roxy wonders if Dirk has some horrible fever that's making the man look so worried.

 

“You seem pretty cool...” Oh, no. This might be even worse. If they don't know what it is, how can they treat it? John looks into Dirk's throat with a light, then rubs gently at his neck with his thumb and forefinger. “...Your throat looks fine, and your glands aren't swollen. How do you feel?”

 

Dirk shrugs. “Not great, I guess.”

 

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

 

Dirk gives a vague shrug. John's brows furrow. “...Not for nothing, kid, but there's gotta be _something_ wrong for you to be sick. Could you... describe it to me, what's 'not great' about what you're feeling?”

 

Dirk hesitates where he is sunken into the bed, gripping the sheets tightly in his hands. He seems to be debating something. “...I feel really, really tired. Like...” He pauses, thinking. “It feels like an effort, just to get out of bed and move around.”

 

John rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Well, you don't seem unhealthy... but you definitely don't look good, either. And you've definitely been lethargic lately...” He worries his lower lip. “It couldn't hurt to let you stay home from school for a day or two. You don't have any exams coming up, right?”

 

“Exams aren't until you turn fourteen,” Roxy cuts in. “ _We_ barely have any work during the school day, our teachers have all given up 'cause everybody's so hyper about school ending!”

 

John backtracks somewhat. “You two have already missed so much of the school year already...”

 

“But we caught up with our work!” Roxy pouts at John, sure to stick out her lower lip and bat her eyes as precociously as possible. Dirk better be grateful to her for this – she's pulling out the big guns!

 

The older man chuckles. “Well, since your sister seems so determined to get you the day off, I guess you can stay home tomorrow, Dirk. Just let me know if you're feeling better. Or worse.”

 

He rises to get the boy a glass of water. Dirk sighs and turns so his back is to the door, and thus Roxy. “You didn't have to call him in. I won't die if I don't get a day off.”

“I'm worried about you, though! You've been acting so weird lately.” She doesn't want to say, you're acting just like Mom did when Dad went away. She thinks Dirk will scoff at her because he doesn't drink alcohol, so it couldn't possibly be the same thing affecting them both! ...Could it?

 

John shoos Roxy out of Dirk's room so he can rest. She decides talking to Jane will help take her mind off of her brother's illness. Or maybe, Jane'll even help her figure out what's wrong with him. Jane is fourteen years old – to preteen Roxy, that makes her seem a mystical font of wisdom.

→

 

Roxy crawls into bed with her brother that night, despite protests that he might get her sick, too. She's determined to keep him company. She points out that they've always shared a room and they've always comforted each other when they feel bad.

 

Dirk rolls his eyes. “Yeah – and every cold I had, you ended up catching, too.” Still, he releases his death grip on the covers and lets her crawl in with him.

 

But to Roxy's horror, she awakes the next morning to find her brother feeling even worse than he did the day before. She shakes him to try to get him out of bed, but he pulls away from her to sink, deeper and deeper, under his covers. “Dirk? Dirk??”

 

He makes a miserable noise, once, and then falls silent. None of her calls for him seem to be able to reach him. It's like he's far away, like... like he's being swept away from her, and has given in to the tide's pull. Fear grips her chest – this is different. She knows this is different than yesterday. She stumbles out of his bed as fast as she can, the only thought in her head being, _Get help_. “John – John!!”

 

She tries to drag the sleepy man into Dirk's room, but he resists her with a yawn. “Roxy...” He pauses to flip the meat in the pan. He takes so long to continue that at one point Roxy fears he may never finish. “...It's early. Dirk probably just wants to sleep.”

 

John won't go with her to check up on him, no matter how Roxy insists it's different from Dirk's regular kind of tired. “But it doesn't _sound_ all that remarkable, Roxy. You said he rolled over and didn't answer you? He probably just didn't appreciate the noise. If you check in on him after...” He checks his watch. “...Noon, we'll get him out of bed and see if he's healthy. If he really was sick yesterday, you're probably making it worse by bothering him.”

 

Roxy can hardly concentrate all that day. She wants it to be noon so she can prove to John that Dirk's really sick. Jane tries to comfort her, coaxing her into the yard to make daisy chains. But even after they've both got a full set of crowns, bracelets, and necklaces, Roxy still doesn't feel much better. Just... itchier. She sneezes once or twice.

 

“I'm telling you, Dirk isn't himself!”

 

Jane tries to smile reassuringly, but it looks forced. “Roxy, how can you possibly tell?”

 

“I don't _know!_ ” When she reached into the covers for him, it didn't feel like he was sinking beneath fabric. She felt like he was sinking beneath the sea, and for all her splashing, she couldn't reach down far enough and pull him up. Dirk had been cranky plenty of times, and she had seen him when he wanted to sleep in – but this wasn't like that. This was like all the times he pulled the covers up because he didn't want people to see his face fraught with emotion, when he disappeared into darkness for the sake of escaping a harshly-lit reality.

 

Jane didn't have a sibling. Roxy wasn't sure she'd understand even if Roxy herself could begin to explain it.

 

→

 

By four o'clock, Dirk still hasn't gotten out of bed. John, finally starting to get worried, goes into his room to check on him, telling Roxy to stay outside. She's full of nervous energy as she stares at the door, fretting that whatever mystery illness seems to be plaguing her brother has gotten worse.

 

When John finally emerges, he looks annoyed. “I wanted to sleep in late plenty of weekends, especially when I was fourteen, but this is just ridiculous...”

 

“Is he okay?” Roxy asks. “Does he has a fever?”

 

John shakes his head. “I don't think anything's really wrong, Roxy. I think your brother's just come down with a case of stubbornness!”

 

Roxy's face falls. “What do you mean? He's definitely sick – Dirk would never act like this if something wasn't-!”

 

“He's not sick. He just doesn’t like being here,” John says with a sigh. “He _told_ me he doesn't like being away from your parents and he doesn't like Prospit. And yeah, I get that!” John throws his arms up in exasperation. “But he needs to just accept that he's here and he can't go home! I mean, you're sad too, I'm sure, but you don't wallow in bed for hours or pick fights with your teachers!”

 

This all sounds far too abridged to Roxy. She glances into the room, but all she sees is a pile of blankets pulled taught like a cocoon, a shock of yellow hair peeking out of the top. She thinks of her mom, and wonders what she'd do in this situation. Not in Dirk's situation – Roxy has the scary feeling she already knows that – but what she would do if she were Roxy.

 

“I'm going to talk to him myself,” Roxy declares. She marches into her brother's room determinedly, stopping only to turn back and shut the door behind her. She sees John look shocked when she does so.

 

This time, when Roxy calls out to Dirk, he answers. His voice is raspy. “I tried to tell him. I really did. But he doesn't seem to understand.”

 

Roxy frowns. She wishes Dirk would uncover his face... “He doesn't understand what?”

 

“I can't _stand_ it here-” He stops himself unexpectedly, a small, incoherent noise filling in the space where there should be elaboration.

 

Roxy's stomach lurches. Not this again. She thought she succeeded in cheering him up last time! “Dirk... We'll go home _some_ day. For now we just...”

 

“I can't _just_ , I can't!” He throws off the covers and, to her shock, his face is red and wet. His expression is fraught with emotion, and she wonders if he cried in front of John, too. But he hates looking vulnerable, especially to strangers... “I don't see the _point_ in getting up if I'm just going to have to face another day in stupid _Prospit!_ ”

 

Roxy flounders. “School's ending tomorrow – it'll be okay then! You won't have to fight with your teachers, we can just spend time with Jane and John and all the good ones!”

 

He rakes his hands over his face, mouth trembling in a grotesque display of emotion. Roxy doesn't think she's ever seen him look so terrible. “Just – get out! Go away!!”

 

“Dirk-”

 

“ _Go!_ ”

 

She tumbles awkwardly backwards, only just barely avoiding falling out of his bed. She throws him a last, helpless look before she leaves his room. She shuts the door, her hands resting on the wood for a few seconds. They're real wood doors, painted in a soft, gold paint. How gaudy, she thinks for the first time. She always thought John's house was kind of pretty, but it seems so fake to her now, like every detail is trying too hard.

 

She hears him sigh behind her. “What'd I tell you? Stubborn!”

 

She doesn't even have the energy to glare at the door. “If that's what you call crying 'cause you miss your family and your home, sure, he's stubborn,” Roxy mutters. She's thinks John's too guilted by that to argue with her, but when she turns around, he's not even there.

 

→

 

Roxy walks home from her last day of school alone. Dirk elected to skip, much to John's chagrin, and Jane is busy with other student council kids cleaning up after the flamboyant assembly they had that day. She'd said something about not wanting to be a bother to the custodians before leaving Roxy to shout at a boy who was trying to sneak out early.

 

Roxy misses Jane's company. She tries not to get too wrapped up in thinking about her brother, or her parents, or even John – she knows she should just ask him to be more specific about what happened when he saw Dirk, but she keeps picturing him rolling his eyes over Dirk crying, and it's making her angrier and angrier. As she walks down the empty alleyway, she kicks a trashcan just for the catharsis of it, and nearly jumps out of her skin when the garbage can yowls at her in reply.

 

She stumbles backwards. The can wobbles, but settles back upright. The banging sounds inside it stop. “H-hello?”

 

The can doesn't reply. She takes a tentative step forward. She's afraid to peer inside. It's obvious that there's an animal in there: what if it's some crazed raccoon with rabies? What if it jumps up and bites her face?? Still, she wants to make sure she only startled it, and didn't hurt it...

 

Bravely, she peers inside. She frowns – there's just trash. She leans forward.

 

The trash moves. She nearly jumps back again, startled, but then, from underneath a scummy cloth, a tiny, black kitten appears. It looks up at her and mews, and her heart melts. The poor thing! Its fur is so matted and filthy that it's altogether possible that the cat isn't as wholly dark-furred as it looks. She also thinks she sees something wrong with one of its eyes – maybe it's pointing the wrong way? – but everything's so shrouded in garbage and shadow that she cannot tell.

 

She can practically hear her cleanly older brother howling in disgust as she reaches into the garbage can and to pull the kitten out. She expects it to swat at her, to hiss, but it only cowers pathetically. This only makes her more determined to help it.

 

She lifts the cat out and takes a good look at it. She's holding it by its torso, and it struggles for her to let it down. She holds on tight, though, ignoring the flailing paws and the tiny kitty nails – which hurt like a crap-ton, but she's a woman on a mission, and she won't let her discomfort get in the way of helping this poor animal!

 

To her disappointment, the cat's eye is actually far more injured than she could have imagined. Cataracts or even cherry eye would be one thing, but this cat's eye seems slightly gored, maybe even infected – she feels sick looking at it. It must have lost its eye in a fight – but such a little kitten, to be attacked and maimed by another animal! She wonders where its mother is. A quick survey of the alley shows no signs of other cats, and a few quick kicks to the other trash cans provide no more yowls or shrieks. She looks at the fence lining the alley and wonders what lies beyond it – maybe a pound, or a home with a family of cats...?

 

The kitten meows and wiggles in her hands. She coos at it.

 

“You're so _cute!_ I'm going to name yoooou... Jasper! That's a unisex name, right?” The cat blinks at her with its good eye. “Oh, who cares! All names are unisex names.” She clutches the cat close. She takes its lack of scratching as a positive sign. “Let's go back to my friend's house, Jasper! Well... I guess it's _technically_ my house, too, now. For a while, at least. Hey! Maybe you're a refugee, like me! We're a far way from our real homes, but don't worry! I'm going to introduce you to the people who took _me_ in...”

 

It only just occurs to her that John might not let her keep the cat. But surely if she plays the 'poor, homeless orphan' card, he'll let her keep it...? She doesn't let herself fret over this little hole in her plans, though, and carries on talking to her new friend. “...Well. I'll introduce you to our hosts _eventually_. For now I'll just introduce you to their house.”

 

She talks to the cat the entire way back to John's home. It's soothing, and when the cat sighs or meows, it feels like it's talking back to her. Which is, like, the most adorable thing she's ever witnessed in her entire life.

 

→

 

Roxy pretends she is the most skillful of Dersite assassins as she moves stealthily through the house, managing to get Jasper up to her room without detection. In reality, she has John's work to thank for keeping him later, but that's not quite as fun to think about.

 

She closes her door behind her. What to do, what to do? Well, this guy's definitely going to need someplace comfy to rest. She looks at her bed, and then his matted fur, then shrugs. She puts the cat down near the foot of her bed, on top of the comforter. As soon as he's free from her arms, he starts to rapidly pace around.

 

“Okay,” she says to herself. “Now what?” He looks at her and meows pathetically. “You're probably really hungry... I guess I could grab you some people-food from the pantry.” She wonders what cats actually eat – if she can't find any tuna, stuff like leftover steak will be fine, right? “And... well, I'm sorry to tell you this, Jasper, but you are super grody. You need, like, a hundred pounds of soap, probably.” But can she possibly wash him in the tub without getting caught? She's not even sure how long it'll be until John comes home...

 

“Wait! I know!” The cat looks away from the string it was trying to bite out of her quilt, seeming to realize it's being addressed. “I'll give you a sponge bath. Or a washcloth bath. Does that sound cool?” She holds out her hand for the cat to sniff. When it doesn't flinch away or bite, she pets it, uncaring of the greasiness of its fur. This is so great! She's always wanted a cat, and now she's finally got one! This is way easier than her mom made it seem like it'd be.

 

She runs off to the kitchen. She pours milk into an ugly cereal bowl she hopes John and Jane won't miss and grabs a couple slices of bread from the drawer. She's not really sure what else to get for Jasper – do cats _really_ subsist off of mice and tuna? She wraps up a couple of chunks of the steak from last night in the bread just to be sure. Her hands are full at this point, so she figures she'll try to clean Jasper off after he's eaten.

 

She has to walk very slowly and carefully to keep the milk from spilling out of the bowl. She scolds herself for not just carrying the bowl and the milk container upstairs and _then_ pouring it for the cat, but she's gotten too far to turn back now. It takes her an _entire_ pain-staking minute to get up the stairs and to the door of her room, but it feels longer than that. Roxy is so relieved to finally get to her room that she makes her second mistake: food and milk bowl still in her hands, she starts to maneuver the door open.

 

The second the door is open wide enough, the cat makes a break for it, startling her into dropping the bowl. “Jasper, _no!_ ”

 

She hesitates, looking at the spilled milk and then the cat as it runs for the stairs. Realizing that she has no idea how to clean milk out of a carpet anyway, she sets the meat and the bread down in a dry spot in front of her door and sprints after the cat.

 

She feels terrified when she reaches the bottom of the steps and starts to look around the first floor. What if there's an open window somewhere? What if John gets home soon? She can't see Jasper anywhere and she can't hear any suspicious rustling...

 

Except that she does hear a door open upstairs, and looks up in time to see Dirk approach the balcony's railing, scratching his eyes. “Roxy? Why are you making so much noise?”

 

Of course – her brother will help! “Dirk!! You have to help me, my cat's gone missing and if I don't catch him soon, John's going to get home and I'll be in trouble!!”

 

Dirk blinks owlishly at this news. “...Are you playing a pretend-game?”

 

“ _No!_ ” She's getting restless. She needs to find Jasper and Dirk's questions are holding her back right now! “I found a cat on my way home from school and I brought him here but I don't think I'm gonna be allowed to keep him so he's a secret but he got out of my room and if I don't catch him and hide him soon he won't be a secret anymore!” She pauses to suck in a desperate breath. “So you gotta help me find him!!”

 

She's nearly panting by the end of this spiel. Her brother looks troubled, a degree of alertness finally entering his features. “Oh, uh, yeah, I'll help you. What does your cat look like...?”

 

“He looks like an alive cat!! But John's gonna make me put him back where I found him and he'll be a DEAD cat if he has to fend for himself, his eye's already messed up!” She starts to run into the living room in search of him. As she overturns pillows and looks under tables, she hears Dirk come downstairs too.

 

She comes out of the living room to see her brother rummaging in the icebox. He pulls out some food. “Dirk, what-?”

 

“I figure if we find him wedged somewhere, we'll need something to coax him out,” he says with a shrug. “Oh,” Roxy replies. That's pretty smart, actually.

 

“I just wish we had fish – animals go crazy for the smell. Not just cats.”

 

They wander around the house, alternating between making “kitty noises” and sneaking in utter silence in an attempt to find the cat. Eventually, they hear a crash come from the dining room, and rush in in time to see a wooden sculpture knocked over – but unharmed – and the cat prowling on top of a silverware cabinet. They end up having to pull over chairs so they can stand up and reach. They corner the cat with their outstretched palms, and when Jasper is finally drawn to Dirk's unaggressive handful of food, Roxy grabs the cat tightly by his middle while he's distracted. They descend from the chairs, the cat wiggling, crazed in Roxy's hands, refusing to calm until Dirk feeds him the rest of the steak.

 

They both end up having to support the cat as they carry him back upstairs and shut him, securely, in Roxy's room. “See, Roxy, you have to... Watch – don't kick him, but shoo him inside with your foot, then pull it back through the door and shut it as fast as you can.” Dirk demonstrates. When the door is shut, he further elaborates: “Before you go in, you have to have your body up against the door, and you have to shoo him inside again so he doesn't get out...”

 

Dirk takes a step and makes a face. Stepping away from the closed door, he looks down and finally seems to register the bowl on the floor. The white milk stands out only slightly on the peach carpets. He frowns. “...Did you spill something?”

 

Roxy smiles sheepishly. Dirk sighs. “I'll get some paper towels and some cleaning stuff.”

 

They clean up the milk spot together. Roxy really wants this to be a bonding moment for them, but Dirk proves difficult to talk to today. He doesn't want to tell her about his day, he doesn't comment on her story of how she discovered Jasper in the alley, and he replies to her apologies for making him help her with a curt shrug. He barely reacts to any of her attempts at conversation, and eventually she stops trying to talk to him. He's made her words feel so insignificant, so invisible, that she rather not talk at all.

 

After they've properly cleaned up and put their supplies away, he starts to slink back towards his room. Roxy calls after him - “Wait! Dirk, are you mad at me?”

 

He turns his head enough to show he's listening, but not enough so she can see his face. “No. Why would I be mad?”

 

She doesn't know. He's just so frosty right now, she isn't sure what else but annoyance with her could be making him act this way. “Well, uh... you won't tell anyone about Jasper, will you?”

 

“No.” He continues to pause there in the hall for a moment or two, as if waiting for her to say something. Then he trudges back into his room.

 

She carefully enters her own room, picking up the food she set aside earlier as she does so. She wanders over to her bed and sits down, cradling the food in her hands. The cat comes to her, jumping onto her bed and crawling into her lap so it can nibble from her hands. He bites her finger once accidentally when he's finished, but then licks it as if in apology. She strokes his mangy fur.

 

He's cute, she thinks, affectionate, once you've proven yourself trustworthy. She thinks Jasper will love Dirk too, eventually. If he's willing to leave his room every once in a while. She slips her fingers through the fur, doesn't even feel the filthiness stuck to her skin, and thinks that her brother isn't ever going to be okay. Fingers trembling along skinny, little Jasper's pronounced spine, she thinks that this is the end. Dirk is too far gone. He doesn't care enough to get out of bed. He doesn't even care about her anymore. Soon, he just won't care about anything. She feels her face begin to spasm, tears forcing themselves out of the corner of her eyes. She barely hears Jasper mew as she pets him not harder, precisely, but more ferociously, her hold on him quickly becoming a clutch. He's so skinny. Jasper is so, so skinny. She can feel his little ribs, she can see his gored eye, the eye Dirk didn't even comment on where before he would've demanded their parents call the vet if Maplehoof so much as bumped into another horse a little too hard. Roxy starts to cry fully then, wishing with all her heart that she could cure her older brother, that she could cure Jasper, that Jasper could be a normal cat. She keeps clutching and cuddling the cat, crying over him, her sadness overwhelming her with a bizarrely powerful force.

 

She thinks it's just her sadness. But then there's heat. And suddenly, through her tears, she realizes Jasper's fur isn't all the blackness there. A little dark cloud seems to have engulfed her cat, and is now slowly dissipating.

 

Roxy blinks back her tears. She wipes her eyes hurriedly. She places Jasper down firmly on the bed before her and really _looks_ at her cat. Jasper blinks back at her, his four eyes not quite in sync, and licks his paw.

 

_Four. Eyes._ Roxy gawks. Where before Jasper had one good eye and one gored eye... he now has four perfect, fully-functioning eyes. A set in the regular place for eyes, and. A slightly smaller set above them. Jasper looks around and starts to pace around the bed, as if only just realizing that he has a far greater span of sight than before.

 

Roxy sits back, Feferi's warnings about emotion all suddenly flowing back to her. Roxy did this – Roxy fixed Jasper's eyesight! But in the process, she turned him into a mutant! She starts to feel miserable at the thought that he may be a freak for life just because she doesn't have any control over her emotions and her magic.

 

Getting teary again, she starts rubbing her eyes in an attempt to calm herself down. “This isn't all bad,” she tells herself. She watches Jasper hop and pounce and prowl around her room. He looks way livelier than before. “Look at that! He's thrilled to have four eyes! It's better than being all painfully half blind!” She tries to smile at him through the tears. “A-and this is the best thing you've ever done with magic. You could've made him explode, but you didn't! You healed him! Uh – maybe you healed him a little _too_ well, but you healed him!” She starts to giggle. “Jasper – Jasper, your name doesn't make any sense! You should... I should name you Mutant! No, that's too boring, too mean – _Mutini!_ Mutie! Mutie the mutant!”

 

She's beginning to grow hysterical, giggling uncontrollably. She's terrified, she's excited, she's still a little sad.

 

Watching Jasper start to bite and play with the bottoms of her floor-length curtains, she starts to wonder. What kind of power does it take to give something three new eyes? Does this means she has a special talent?

 

Regardless, now that Jasper's eye is... fixed, there's no way in _hell_ she's telling John about this cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my portrayal of feral cats is inaccurate as fuuuuuuck haha


	10. Act 2, Part 5: Genetics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The big reveal...I'm sure some of you have been suspicious about this since I'll Have My Pound of Flesh Rare...

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Five: Genetics

* * *

 

The summer Roxy finds Jasper is also the summer during which Dirk's depression takes a severe turn. Still hopeful, Roxy decides to beg John to let Dirk take up horseback and swordsmanship. She also asks to resume her magical tutoring. John expresses a great enthusiasm for these ideas. Jade herself is actually a white witch, John says, but she has dabbled in grimdark, and would probably love to tutor Roxy! Roxy is happy to think that she'll be able to share the same thing she uses to connect with her mom with one of her mom's best friends growing up.

 

But her hope begins to crack when Dirk refuses to engage in activities he used to love. He smiles sheepishly at his sister and confesses that he just doesn't want to; she shouldn't feel worried, he says. But his refusal to budge on this issue absolutely floors John.

 

“C'mon, Dirk! Sometimes we all have to do things we don't want to. And I mean, hey, according to your sister, this is stuff you love to do! So!” He stalls, trying to find some magic words that will inspire him to agree. “...Come on!”

 

Dirk only shakes his head. “I'm okay. You don't have to waste that kind of money on me.”

 

“Have you _seen_ my house?” John snorts. “It's no trouble, really. I just want you to be happy, to get out there and be a normal kid!” He leans in, gently touching Dirk's shoulder. “If you don't see the world, you won't experience anything! You'll have so many regrets!”

 

“I _know_ that,” Dirk sighs. “I already do.”

 

“Then I don't see what the problem is!” John's forced smile falls into a defeated grimace. “Dirk...”

 

But it's no use. Nothing he or Roxy can say will prompt Dirk out of the house. Once or twice, the two resort to asking Jane to try and help them encourage Dirk... but she only shakes her head. “I don't feel like I'm capable of that. You should call a doctor.”

 

John's eyebrows shoot up. “A doctor? Jane, what the heck are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with him!” He sighs. “If I could bring Dave and Rose here, I would...”

 

Roxy doesn't ask what he's told their parents about Dirk. There's no doubt that he hasn't been able to contact them since their letters started to peter out months ago.

→ 

That summer, Roxy doesn't necessarily empathize with Dirk's crush on douchelord Cronus Ampora, but she does understand him a little better. Because all at once, as if overnight, Roxy realizes she _loves_ boys – even if she doesn't know that many.

 

For a while, Roxy seems to have a new crush every week. No boy can escape her adoring flirtation – for a short period of time, she has even has a crush on John. But this soon fades away to embarrassment on both of their parts.

 

The boy Roxy keeps going back to, though, is the one she sees most often – Jake English. The handsome older boy. The ideal summer crush! Lots of girls in her grade think he's cute, but Roxy has a head start over all of them, having become his friend. (She doesn't think about the fact that she probably likes him for this very friendship putting them in proximity of each other. When one has a crush, Roxy figures it's best not to over-think it, and just have as much fun with it as possible.)

 

Unlike with her many other crushes, Roxy doesn't confide in Jane about her feelings for Jake. Because if anyone likes the gangly boy best, it's his cousin.

 

When the beginning of school is just rearing its threatening head over the horizon, Dirk manages to put on a happy face and spend some time with his friends, away from his bedroom. Jake is visiting that day, and he seems thrilled to see the other boy. “Maybe you're getting better!” he says hopefully, and Dirk replies with a small smile. (But, noticeably, no agreements. No difficult promises.) Roxy, who actually lives with Dirk, has seen this too many times before to share in Jake's hopefulness – sometimes, Dirk has good days. But he has had plenty of unmitigated bad weeks to make up for them.

 

In any case, they all have a nice day. The group has started to outgrow their play-adventure tendencies, and instead sit or lay in affectionate piles around the house. They chat and read and pick at the hems of their shirts in the way that friends who are infinitely comfortable with each other do when there's not much gossip to share. They are in an awkward transition state; they are no longer children, they reject a level of playfulness, and yet they aren't interested in the activities that their peers are. They don't want to grow up quite as quickly as everyone else seems to want to, nor do they want to grasp desperately at their childhoods.

 

Dirk is the only one of their group with romantic experience. Jane and Jake are in awe of him, even when he blushes and mumbles that it didn't mean much, it was just some local kid. It strikes Roxy as bizarre that Cronus was her worst enemy a year ago – and then a war supplanted him as the worst thing to ever happen to her. And now her life has become almost painfully mundane again, so much so that she could see herself hating a boy like Cronus again, if one were to present himself.

 

“And it was a _troll boy?_ ” Jane asks in awe. And when Dirk nods, Jake exclaims, “You can _do_ that?” And Dirk shifts uncomfortably, because he nor anyone else he knew ever treated his attractions like they were all that odd before. Jane sees his discomfort and explains, “It’s not that there’s anything _wrong_ with it… it’s just, humans don’t normally do that sort of thing. Date the same sex _or_ date outside humanity. I get trolls dating the same sex, because they can reproduce that way, but…”

 

“He was my boyfriend,” Dirk points out, “not my husband. I didn’t really want to have babies with him, so reproduction is irrelevant.”

 

“And Cronus technically thought of himself as human,” Roxy says. “But he was just fine with liking boys and girls both. So it can’t be all that rare!”

 

The cousins seem deeply confused by this, and fall into a contemplative silence.

 

Most days, Jane tries, very shyly, to flirt with Jake. He's terribly oblivious to it – perhaps willfully, but, more likely, because he's misinterpreting her advances as friendly or familial. Jane tries not to be discouraged; every small nicety he bestows upon her is a victory in her book. When he's left for the day, she flails with excitement at some nice thing or another he's said to her, patting her face as if to keep the joy contained in her smile.

 

“Aaah! He's so...” She flails some more. The Strider siblings trade smiles. “...Cute!!”

 

She sits up. Roxy giggles. “Your hair is way messed up.”

 

Jane flicks it briefly. “When you've got a pixie,” she says, “it's never _too_ messed up!”

 

“You keep telling yourself that,” Roxy purrs. They all laugh quietly at this, too giddy to care that it's a predictable quip.

 

Jane sighs dreamily. “I'm gonna marry him someday.” They laugh again. But when the giddiness dies down... “No, but I mean it. It's how you preserve bloodlines.” She smiles, falling against the sofa. “I'm so lucky, to get someone as great as Jake...”

 

“Oh,” Dirk says. He's frowning ever so slightly.

 

“I mean. I know it sounds a bit silly, perhaps gross of me, but it's very normal,” Jane promises. She isn't really paying attention to her friends; otherwise she might notice the disappointment lurking in both of their expressions. “It's fine with cousins. There's enough familial separation. Anything closer than that is just completely vulgar.”

 

Roxy is surprised. “Why is it vulgar?”

 

Jane seems to jolt with shock. She looks incredulously at her younger friend. “You know what incest is, don't you?”

 

“Yeah...?” Roxy is unsure where this is going. Dirk cuts in. “We know what incest is, we're just not sure why you're so against one form and so fine with another.”

 

Jane blushes at that. She loops her finger in a strand of jet black hair. “W-well, it has to do with the kids! I-if you're closer than cousins, you're bound to have really strange kids – not in just because of the family dynamic, but because of genetics! If two people are too related and they have children together, their kids get all kinds of illnesses!” She looks at them worriedly. “Didn't your parents explain this stuff to you?”

 

Roxy ponders this. “...I guess?” She doesn't really remember her parents talking about it much at all, even to say it was good or bad. “But trolls all mix their genetics together regardless of relation! So it can't be all-?”

 

Jane cringes so powerfully it cuts Roxy off. “Oh, but Roxy... That's how people like Karkat are born!”

 

Dirk and Roxy's resulting expressions are so horrified that Jane immediately regrets her wording. “Jane!” Roxy exclaims. “What the heck is _that_ supposed to mean?!”

 

“I know Karkat's a bit of a douche, but that's just harsh,” Dirk says, frowning disapprovingly.

 

Jane starts to flail again. “You _guys –_ I'm not trying to be insulting, I mean Karkat's genetics!!” The Strider siblings look quizzically at each other. Their lack of glares and abundance of confusion causes Jane to calm down somewhat, her arms stilling. “...Do you two not know? About his blood color?”

 

She explains that Karkat’s blood is a vibrant, almost candy-apple red – a color normal to humans and carapaces, but exorbitantly rare in trolls. The color of a troll’s blood can be connected to various diseases – and like with a dog breed, many diseases only pop up in certain castes. But the biggest problem with Karkat’s blood color is what it will do to his lifespan: the lower the caste of a troll, the shorter they live. One can only imagine how short the life of an anomaly like him will be. 

 

Of course, there was one famous troll hundreds of years ago... “But regardless of Karkat's relation to him, it's still not a normal color! Before that guy, it was unheard of!” Jane sighs. “But see, what I'm trying to say is, even when it's culturally accepted, incest is still pretty wrong!”

 

Roxy frowns. Karkat, despite his temper, his horns, strikes her as a totally normal person. She doesn't see how looking a little funny impedes on his life so much that his method of birth need be damned. Like, the life thing sounds bad, but he _seems_ pretty healthy, and the average life span for trolls is way longer than a normal, perfectly happy human’s lifespan is, anyway… But maybe it's different for humans. Maybe worse things happen to them when their gene pool is stagnant...

 

Dirk smirks. “So by that logic, even though it's culturally acceptable for you to marry Jake...”

 

He laughs as Jane pretends to hit him. Roxy wonders why she's only just hearing this now. Maybe her parents didn't want their kids to blurt something out and offend their friends – they _did_ grow up with a lot of trolls...

 

→

 

When the trees surrounding her home are as bare as stags' antlers, Jade snickers as she asks, “Tell me again, what John did when he first discovered Jasper.”

 

Roxy finds the whole memory embarrassing – and, to be honest, John probably does, too – but all Jade cares about is his humiliation, not Roxy's. And so Roxy tells the older woman about how John opened the pantry to find a four-eyed cat staring back at him, screamed, and then tumbled backwards and spilled everything off the kitchen counter.

 

Jade laughs quite happily at this story. Roxy laughs along a little too, although she still feels bad thinking about it. John had been so red-faced as he'd lectured her.

 

“He wanted to call Animal Services,” Roxy remembers with a sigh. “And then I had to explain that I was the one who messed up his eyes and John almost didn't believe me...”

 

Jade lifts her glasses to wipe a tear from her eye. “Ha, ha! Oh, man, I can picture it all... You know, I've said this before, but I'll say it again: you're very powerful, young lady! It took me ages to undo that spell.”

 

Now Roxy's blush is one of bashfulness. “I think I'm getting better,” she says. “I've fixed up a few more strays. The last one only had one _tiny,_ extra toe when I got done healing his leg, and he could move pretty fast and stuff with it.”

 

“Good!” Jade beams. “That's good!” She chuckles. “Is that place still packed with cats?”

 

“They keep coming back!” Roxy whines. “I still feed them sometimes... I mean, I feel bad, 'cause they're all homeless!”

 

“That's probably why they keep coming back,” Jade points out. “Don't worry, though. I'll keep your secret. And if anybody finds mutated cats around, we'll just let them think it's pollution.”

 

They laugh, but Roxy thinks anyone who saw the cats would know it was sorcery. Even in poorer neighborhoods, Prospit's capital is _ridiculously_ clean. No one would ever believe pollution mutated those cats, unless they were willing to believe they all came over on trains from Derse.

 

Roxy follows Jade up the steps to her observatory. She's fascinated by the bizarre mix of paraphernalia both from magic practices and the natural sciences. Not only is Jade a certified witch, but she's an expert chemist. “Potions aren't just for those lucky enough to be born with magic,” Jade says in a sing-songy voice. “Everybody should have a chance to create something from nothing. Well – something better from something innocuous. The law of conservation applies to those who can't bend reality to their whims on the wave of a wand. Or a big, powerful thought,” she adds, winking at Roxy.

 

Jade's observatory is a very large, circular room atop a tower that is painted a crisp, off-white. The floor is tiled white and gray, and all of Jade's supplies, magic or of the natural sciences, are organized very neatly on shiny silver shelves and desks. Today, Roxy and Jade are lugging up boxes of plants from the garden downstairs to use in a potion. Roxy sets her box down to admire this room, where she's been receiving lessons from Jade for over a year. It's infinitely different from Feferi's small, earthy hut, that much is sure.

 

Jade calls Roxy over to help her drag the “cauldron” to the center of the room... or at least far enough out of the closet that they can use it. It's not a big, black, iron thing like Feferi's was, though. She had the traditional kind, the kind you see in children's picture books. Jade's is more of a sleek, chrome basin, suspended on metal rods so a fire can be placed on a metal base beneath it. It's heavy, but not so heavy that the two of them can't get it as far as they need to without pulling any muscles.

 

When they've got it settled, Jade nods happily, and then, with a flick of her fingers, makes a small, white fire appear beneath the basin. “There we go!” Roxy is grateful for this improvement – Feferi always had her gather logs and start a tediously traditional fire. Jade's seems to burn without fuel, which Feferi always warned was a waste of a magic user's physical energy. But Jade is way younger than Fef – she can handle it.

 

“Hey Jade – you were friends with my mom, right?”

 

Jade raises her eyebrows. “Yes! Of course!”

 

Roxy watches the flame flicker. “Do you have any good stories about them?”

 

“Oh. Yes, I suppose...” Jade smiles awkwardly. “Maybe after your lesson, we could talk about them?”

 

“Okay!” Roxy beams. “I'm going to hold you to that promise though, okay??”

 

“Ha ha, okay...”

 

Roxy devotes herself thoroughly to the lesson. She doesn't completely let Jade off the hook, though – she peppers in questions like, “Was my mom good at this?” “Why'd she go for dark if you went for white?” “Have you ever met Feferi?”

 

Jade easily answers all of these questions. “Pass me that beaker – yes, she was good at this. Rose was good at everything, even though she decided to concentrate on seeing.” “Well, I actually thought I was going to focus solely on the sciences until I got to college. When I got there, though, I realized I had a strong propensity for white magic after all, so I double-majored. Your mom, meanwhile, knew since she was young that she was meant to do something with the grimdark – even excelled in other subjects, she had a special connection to magic. She always felt it was her ticket out of her parents' house.” “Who? Focus on the potion, please.”

 

And then there's the big one. The one Roxy was saving until the end of the lesson. “How did my parents fall in love?”

 

Jade pauses to consider. “Well. I suppose it was a long time coming... they knew each other forever, after all. Since they were little kids.” She talks slowly, carefully. “As long as I knew them, they kept coming back to each other. They dated a million other people when we were young, but they loved each other too much to stay apart for long. They couldn't help it. They tried not to – Dave and I dated for a quite a while, and there was a point when John was dead set on proposing to Rose.”

 

Roxy's mouth drops open. Her parents sent her to live with their _exes?_ “ _Really?_ And you're all _still_ friends?”

 

Jade chuckles. “Yes, really. We were all friends for longer than we were boyfriends or girlfriends, anyway.” She tries to smile, but it slides into a sigh. “Anyway, they loved each other too much to settle for anyone else. It didn’t really happen all at once or in a specific instance – they’d always been in love, in a way.”

 

Roxy frowns to herself. “Why would they ever try to fight that? If you love somebody, and they love you, you should just be together, right?”

 

Jade stares at her for a moment, facial expression slightly perplexed. But then the look passes into a serene one, and Roxy is unsure if she imagined the first. “Yes – I see what you mean, Roxy.”

 

“And why'd they leave Prospit?” Roxy huffs. “I like Derse, but I don't get it. It’s safe here, and the government’s not all messed up.”

 

“...Their parents were against the marriage, I think.” Jade shrugs. The white fire goes out. “I don't know, I. I think we grew apart at that point. I don't think I knew the whole story – one day they were here, with their kid, then. One day, before Rose was supposed to start at the same college I was already at. They were gone.”

 

Roxy blinks. “...I forgot Dirk was born here.” She looks up suddenly. “Hey – were you and my mom pregnant at the same time?”

 

Jade nods. “Yes, actually. And my brother's wife – not John's, since he was never married, but James's – she was pregnant, too. Rose was the youngest of the three of us...”

 

She looks sad, suddenly. “Roxy, help me drag the cauldron back into the closet. It's getting late, and I need to get you back home.”

 

Roxy is surprised. “You don't need to take me home – I can just walk back like I usually do.”

 

Jade's shaking her head. “No, but... I need to see John, anyway. It's no hassle, really.”

 

Roxy frowns, but complies, helping Jade push the cauldron back. When they've cleaned up all of their supplies, they head down the stairs to return to John's house together.

 

→

 

John does a double-take when Roxy enters the kitchen with Jade. “What are you doing here?! ...Not that I'm unhappy you're here, I just, I'm surprised...”

 

She shakes her head at him, not in the mood to argue. “I just wanted to see you, is all. Do you have a moment?”

 

He looks back at where Jane is stirring a bowl of batter. She shrugs. “I don’t really need your supervision when I bake,” she scoffs, tone playful.

 

He frowns. “But we were having such a good uncle-niece bonding moment...” He squints at Jade, trying to look serious, but his smile breaks through his attempt to be sober like a beacon of light. “Did you come here on purpose, Jade? To break us up?”

 

Jade grinds her teeth. “ _John._ ”

 

“Fine, fine.” He winks at Roxy as he walks past. The minute they're gone, though, she runs to the doorway to listen, ignoring Jane's chuckle as she does so. Roxy watches sourly as John and Jade ascend the stairs. Dang it, she can't hear them, and there's no way she can follow them the whole way up the steps without looking suspicious! At least, that's what she thinks, until she hears a door close.

 

Thrilled that there’s one more barrier preventing them from catching her, she ascends the stairs, walking slowly so that they steps don’t creak. When she reaches the top step, she grins mischievously at the empty hall. She can put her ear up to the door, and they'll be none the wiser to her eavesdropping! This is her easiest stakeout yet! Trying to hold down her giddy smile (cool spies don't smile), she sneaks along the hall, careful not to make a sound. They're probably not in Dirk's room or her room... It's pretty safe to say that they're in John's. So she makes her way to his door and then, carefully, slowly, leans down so she can press her ear against the keyhole.

 

“...thought they knew, John.” Jade's voice.

 

“Apparently not.” John's voice.

 

A pause. “Well, we can't tell them.”

 

“Rose specifically asked me not to, when she first wrote me, asking me to take them. She said if they find out, they find out, but they don't want to put the burden of telling them on me.”

 

“Technically if they find out and start asking questions, the burden will still be on us to explain it to them.” There is a pause, and then she speaks again. “John, is this why they refused to come back to Prospit with their children..?”

 

From the great sigh he has issued, Roxy can imagine him shaking his head. “Yes and no. Those two are definitely up to something big in Derse. You know how they are – always fighting for the greater good.”

 

“I envy their bravery.”

 

“But not their self-sacrifice. They've got it in their heads that they've got to put their lives and happiness on the line for every little thing.”

 

“Maybe they don't feel they deserve happiness. Maybe they feel they've got to pay the world back for their sins.”

 

“Hmm. Sounds like something Rose would say, at least.”

 

“And like something Dave would internalize.”

 

So, it's about the Big Secret again. The one John approached Karkat about, months ago. Roxy had completely forgotten about that. She's about to ponder it further when it occurs to her that Jade and John haven't talked for a while. She leaps to her feet and grabs for the nearest door-handle that isn't John’s, opens the door as quietly as possible, and leaps inside. The door shutting is the loudest noise she's ever heard. She hears John and Jade coming out into the hall, and runs into a dark corner of the room – no, the bed! She throws herself under the bed.

 

She turns her face so she can see out from under the bed. A light comes from the doorway. She sees John's feet approach, stop for a few seconds, and then turn and leave. “He's sleeping,” she hears him whisper. “Poor thing,” she hears Jade whisper back. “I could've sworn I heard a door, though...”

 

The door shuts again, plunging the room back into darkness. Roxy stays under the bed for several moments, letting her pounding heart return to a reasonable rhythm before she crawls out.

 

Of course. She's in Dirk's room. She turns around to see that, yeah, her brother really does seem to be asleep. His expression isn't terribly peaceful, though. If not for the perfectly even breaths, Roxy would think he was upset about something, and had just briefly squeezed his eyes shut against his worries. She watches Dirk sleep for a few moments longer before making her way out of his room and back into hers. She'll talk to him about this later. Right now, she can at least tell Jasper about this curious turn of events.

 

→

 

Jane smiles absently as she stirs, humming some tuneless ditty she made up on the spot. Her movements around the kitchen are fluid, dance-like, and her voice is syrupy sweet when she talks. She takes to cooking with such pure enjoyment that, if Roxy had been exposed in her childhood to ideals of traditional womanhood, she'd have Jane pegged as pretty close to fulfilling them. Roxy doesn't know these things, though, and so neglects to overanalyze her friend's interest in baking

 

“John and Jade wanted to know where you disappeared to,” Jane says.

 

Roxy shrugs. “Oh, you know. I wanted to check up on Jasper.”

 

Jane looks up from her now homogenous bowl of ingredients. She smirks at Roxy, or at least gets as close to a smirk as a person with such a friendly face can. “Oh?”

 

Roxy returns the look with a sly smile of her own. “Yep,” Roxy says, stretching casually. “And if I happened to hear anything while I was checking up on Jasper...”

 

Jane titters. “Are my detective novels getting to you?” Roxy replies with another shrug, watching as her friend pours the contents of the bowl into a muffin pan.

 

Jane frowns suddenly. “...They weren't fighting, were they?”

 

“What? No! No way.”

 

The dark-haired girl sighs in relief. “Oh, good. You know, I'd hate for you to have to hear them bicker.” She pulls on oven mitts and slides the muffin pan into the oven. It'll be a miracle if there's any room left in the kitchen after they're done.

 

“...Do you know why she's so mad at him?” Jane asks. “She's upset my parents didn't leave me to her. I think Jade would blame my mom, but she's not here anymore, so John's the only person Jade can really resent for this.”

 

Roxy avoids eye contact. “Uh, yeah. I know.” She hears the oven door shut, sees movement. When she looks up, Jane is leaning across the counter towards her.

 

“That's not all, though,” Jane says. “It's not just about me.” She hesitates. “My dad... you know, he was light-skinned, like me and John. And Nana and Popop, they were light-skinned. They were mixed-race – it's how we got our eye color, you know, despite...” Her finger curls absently in a jet-black lock of hair. Roxy isn't sure where this is going.

 

“Surely you've noticed,” Jane says, “how dark Jade is.”

 

Roxy shrugs. “Not really... I mean, I know she has tan skin, but. I wouldn't say that she's all that dark. Or that being dark-skinned is a bad thing.”

 

“Oh, of course it's not!” Jane waves her hands defensively. “Oh, but you see... She's the middle child. She's older than John by several years, but younger than my dad was. So when my dad died... Our family, the Egbert legacy, it really should've been hers, but. It's not just a skin thing, or a girl thing.”

 

Roxy frowns. “It's... both?”

 

“Well, yes and no. It's not just that Jade is dark-skinned... it's that _Popop wasn't.”_ Jane pauses. “Do you see what I'm trying to say?”

 

Roxy nods. It's utterly surreal, how much of her family drama Jane is unloading on her right now.

 

Jane sighs. “I feel bad for Jade, I really do. But she isn't the rightful heir to the family legacy. I mean, sure, she was raised as John and my dad's sister, but...”

 

Her dad wasn't a biological Egbert, so you don't feel she deserves it, Roxy thinks. “So... John has two things she really, really wants.”

 

Jane nods, slowly. She's the one not meeting Roxy's eyes now. “I just felt I should tell you that, in case you think she's being cruel to him. Maybe you think she is, maybe you think she’s civil enough, but she has a reason for acting as she does. And even if I don't totally agree with her, I feel bad.”

 

They stare at the countertops. Roxy can see their reflections faintly in the marble. “How do you think things would be different,” she asks, “if Jade got you instead?”

 

Jane shakes her head, shutting her eyes. “I think she'd be sadder having me than she realizes. John gets depressed enough looking at me and remembering Dad. Imagine looking at somebody and being reminded, not just of a dead relative, but of how that relative let you down, and left the family's financial and social responsibilities to your little brother.” Jane pauses. “I think she'd be upset that she was left with the women's work.”

 

Jane has wilted significantly since bringing all this up. Roxy thinks of what she'd do to comfort one of her family members in this situation, and applies a gentler version to Jane. 

 

Twisting their fingers together, Roxy says, “But dang, girl, think – _everybody_ wants you! Your uncle, your aunt. And it’s not just for rivalry reasons. It’s 'cause you're so freaking great.” Jane giggles. Roxy takes this as her queue to go on. “I think, yeah, maybe Jade would be a little upset she got all the girl work. But I think she'd be super thrilled to have you. She genuinely _loves_ you, you know. And hey.” Roxy waggles her eyebrows. “Picture living with _Jake!_ ”

 

Jane turns charmingly red. She tugs her hands away from Roxy to rake her face. “Oh gosh! I really couldn't! I'd be too embarrassed all of the time – or worse!” She gasps. “Maybe I'd start thinking of him like a _brother!_ ”

 

Roxy laughs kindly at her flustering friend. “Maybe it's good you live with John, then, even if it does mean he and his sister fight sometimes.”

 

Jane's face is starting to lose its redness. She sighs lugubriously. “I feel terrible about their fighting, though. I hate being at the center of it. It makes me feel like it's my fault!”

 

“Oh, it isn't, though!”

 

“No. It's my dad's.” She pauses. A strange look comes over her face. “...I...” But, just as soon as she'd begun to look troubled, she shakes her head, clearing it all away. “No, I'm not going to let myself get emotional. I miss my parents. But I've got John, and Jade, and...” She smiles. “...Jake. And I've got you, and even Dirk.”

 

A warmth spreads through Roxy's chest. “Yeah,” she agrees. “And I'm pretty awesome! And... of course, _Jake_ is pretty awesome, too.”

 

Jane giggles, as she always does when they mention his name in private. It's cute, seeing the difference between her interactions with him and how she behaves when she's comfortable, with Roxy, like this.

 

“So cute,” Jane gushes, “and so terribly silly.”

 

“Yeah,” Roxy agrees. “ _Super_ cute.”

 

The speed with which her hands fly to her mouth is downright comical. Or at least, that's what she gathers from Jane's responding chuckle. Roxy lowers her fingers from her mouth, the fear her friend might be mad at her for complimenting her crush dissipating.

 

Jane smiles at her. “Do you like Jake, too?”

 

Roxy feels her face get hot. “Yeah,” she says. “A little bit.”

 

Jane laughs. “Oh! That's so sweet! Why didn't you tell me?”

 

“Well, gosh, Janey, I mean...”

 

“Oh, what, because I like him, too?” She makes a _pfft_ sound, waving her hand dismissively. “I'd never be mad at you for that, Roxy! I mean, it totally makes sense!”

 

Roxy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It... does?”

 

“Yeah!” Jane beams at her. “I mean, he's the only boy you know really well, aside from your _brother,_ and he's older than you, so you're boundto be enamored with him.”

 

Roxy nods. “So... this doesn't... complicate anything?”

 

Jane's smile changes. “Roxy... you're eleven. Jake and I are fourteen. No, it doesn't really complicate anything.”

 

She knows Jane doesn't intend to be mean, but Roxy's been hiding her crush from Jake for so long because she was afraid Jane would be angry with her. And now... Roxy thinks being treated as a nonthreatening child might be a hundred times worse than Jane being mad at her. Her feelings are cute and infantile. Not worth taking seriously.

 

Jane's face falls into a frown. “Oh, Roxy... I'm so sorry, did I hurt your feelings?”

 

“No, I'm fine.” Roxy forces a smile. Nothing says “control” quite like never looking hurt.

 

→

 

She needs some time alone to feel by herself, without worrying about other people, like adults who keep secrets, or brothers who want to die. And so Roxy excuses herself from the kitchen.

 

She eventually finds herself in the attic. In all of this huge house, it's the only place where, once she finds it, she feels truly alone. Her own room was just discomfiting – it occurred to her as she stepped inside just moments ago that it doesn't feel like her room, but a place where she's just keeping her stuff until she can leave. Even Jasper is just a temporary pet. She's waiting for her parents to write again, to say it's time to go home, and with that hanging over her, it's hard, sometimes, to think of any of this as hers.

 

The attic is one of those ones that requires you stand on your tip-toes to reach the chord and yank the ladder down. But now that Roxy's up here, she can pull everything back up, and be absorbed into the ceiling like just another tile. Complete and utter privacy. She surveys this ramshackle space, the dust, the unpainted wood, the excess junk covered in sheets, and she thinks, it's certainly a change from the rest of John's refined house.

 

Now that she's up here, she might as well entertain herself. She pulls a sheet off a nebulous shape and coughs wildly when the thick layer of dust is upset and disperses into the air. Waving her hand rapidly, she glimpses the now uncovered boxes of various personal effects. She leans down to touch the spines of books, and revels in the fact that so many seem to be about ghosts. She grabs one, mentally commending John for putting together a good, mysterious attic – if only there were another room up here, and maybe a well-guarded iron key, and maybe a creepy portrait on the wall, this place would be perfect. She starts pulling out the books and piling them up. Three volumes of leather-bound ghost stories. A battered paperback manual on ghost-spotting. A guide to supernatural lore across the continent. The books don't make Roxy feel more apprehensive about being in a creepy attic; instead, they make her feel kind of sad. Like maybe this is something John used to be really passionate about, but then he grew up and stopped caring.

 

She opens the book on lore to a random page. _Alternian culture is unique in that the existence of ghosts is considered to be common sense. To Alternians, it seems logical that the existence of magic confirms that of higher corporeal beings, but not necessarily an afterlife in and of itself..._

 

Roxy flips through the pages, getting bored already. Maybe she should've picked up the actual ghost stories book. This one seems to take its subject a little too seriously. She flips past a page with a hyperrealistic illustration of a gnarled Old God, all tentacles and teeth, that prompts her to drop the book in shock.

 

Paranoia crawling its way up her spine, she shoves the ghost books aside to hum manically, digging through the box for something that won't rattle her nerves. There's a paperback book on carpentry, a bad action novel, some blank greeting cards with carnations on them, files Roxy cannot make sense of, photo albums, a year book...

 

Roxy pauses, then slips her fingers into the tight crevices between objects in the box to wrench the yearbook and the photo album out. The yearbook is labeled _Our Time to Shine: Lowas Academy 1111_. It is thick and heavy, and flipping through, she can see it must be covering a school with a very wide age range. There are kids who look younger than her and ones who look older than Dirk. She flips past the grainy, sepia photographs of kids and teenagers in outdated uniforms smiling plastically at cameras on demand. She flips past the title page, quietly critiquing the way every photo looks posed for and unnatural, and the messy way many pictures have been chopped up and collaged together. It's a charming book nonetheless. Then she turns to a page labeled _Best Freinds Forever!!!,_ and spots a photo of her parents and John in the corner, smashed together with a dozen other unlabeled photos of people who could pass as friends.

 

Her heart skips a beat. Here it is! Photographic evidence of her parents' childhood! Rose smiles so prettily at the camera, and Dave has this look of manufactured indifference plastered on his face, his mouth a straight line. Roxy pours over the details of their clothes and the difference in their faces for quite a few minutes before she begins to comb the rest of the book for more glimpses into her parents' youth.

 

About five pages in, it occurs to Roxy that all of the pictures depict humans. Mostly white humans, although there are a few darker-skinned people, and people who look the same race as John... with a lot more variety revealing itself when she get past the pages of gratuitous “fun” photos and reaches the actual class pages. Weird. She turns the page to an ornery-looking class her age, and sees their teacher is a white carapace. She doesn't see another for the rest of the book.

 

She is thrilled when she reaches her mom's class page. There she is in the middle row, with a smart bob-cut caressing her cheeks, across the forehead bangs hiding her sarcastically arched eyebrows, her unpainted lips quirked in an obligatory smile. A sixth grader! Roxy glances at the list of names below the photo. Rose Lalonde – what a beautiful maiden name! Roxy touches her face excitedly. Her mom looks a _ton_ like her! Or, she looks a ton like her mom used to! Roxy revels in the thought that she'll grow up to be as pretty as her mother is now. After several seconds more of admiration, she flips the pages.

 

She spots John first. She's always thought Jake looked like the spitting image of him, but here, with his cheeks fuller, his eyes bigger, he has a stronger resemblance to Jane. A row beneath him, she spots a blonde boy – her dad! He's refusing to smile at the camera again. He looks so much like Dirk, but with thicker eyebrows. Seventh-grader, Dave...

 

Dave... Lalonde. Roxy blinks in surprise. It must be an error. Dave Lalonde. Dave can't be a Lalonde, he's a Strider. Rose is the Lalonde. They can't both have had the same last name before they got married. Not something as uncommon as Lalonde.

 

She starts to flip through the yearbook again, searching. There's an index in the back. She checks it.

 

_Lalonde, Dave – pages 3, 30, 56, 60, 63._ She turns to the pages she hasn't checked yet. _Dave Lalonde and John Egbert working on a science project. Dave Lalonde,_ \- there's a list of ten unfamiliar names – _receiving honors for outstanding art._ Dave Lalonde _._

 

Her hands clench and unclench. Her parents would tell her, wouldn't they? If they were cousins? Jane said there's nothing wrong with cousins getting married. Why would they hide something like that? Why would they go so far as to change their names to Strider?

 

She turns to page 63. There's a photo of her parents. They're pressing their cheeks together. Rose is giving a close-lipped smile. Dave's lips are quirked, like he's trying very hard to retain his angsty, anti-fun image.

 

There is a caption. _Rose and Dave Lalonde pose for a special sibling photo._

 

→

 

It's a wonder she doesn't fall out of the attic as she haphazardly smashes the ladder down. She clutches the yearbook to her chest as she climbs down, her fingers going numb from the force. She doesn't remember to push the ladder back up before she's stumbling, wandering idly in the direction of answers.

 

John is in his room when she knocks. It takes him a few seconds to get to the door. When he answers it he's smiling brightly at her for all of two seconds before her haggard expression turns his grin into a grimace. “Roxy, what's...”

 

“Dave Lalonde,” is all she can manage to say. He looks at her, eyes wide, mouth open. Then his eyes slide to her hands. “...What about Dave Lalonde, kiddo?”

 

He steps back and gestures for her to come inside. She takes wobbly steps forward, then plants her feet firmly on the carpet beside his bed. She doesn't want to sit down. She barely registers the door closing. “This yearbook says my dad's name is Dave Lalonde. But that can't be true, because he's a Strider. My parents never said they were related.” She's hugging the offending thing closer and closer to her chest, as if to bind it shut with her own strength. She dips forward until her hair is a curtain over her eyes. “Please... Please, tell me the truth! Tell me why this thing says my parents have the same last name!”

 

John clears his throat. “It was a prank.”

 

Roxy blinks. “On... me?”

 

She sees – and hears – his shoes as they come to where she's standing. He leans down, prompting her to meet his eyes. “No,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “A prank on Dave. See...” He gently takes the yearbook from her. “...We were on the staff. And one of the running jokes, in my group of friends, was how much Dave and Rose looked alike. I mean... you've noticed, haven't you? Blond, white. That crazy ocular albinism.” He catches her confused look. “Um, pink and red eyes. But, yeah. We teased them a lot for it, and I thought to change his name. Um.” He coughs. “Almost every year, I got away with it. If you happen to find any more yearbooks. It drove Dave absolutely nuts. Rose thought it was funny too, though.”

 

Roxy stares at him, fingers frozen as if still holding the book. “...A prank... on Dave?”

 

John smiles in reply. She blinks at him.

 

“So...”

 

“Your parents aren't related, Roxy.” He gently pats her hair. “But I'd like to ask you to stay out of the attic anyway... it's pretty dangerous up there. Sometimes the door gets stuck, so you could be trapped there. Not to mention I have no idea how long it's been since that place was cleaned...”

 

He's guiding her out of his room with a hand on her back as he talks. “It's just a funny joke. Nothing to worry about, kid.”

 

She doesn't answer. She just lets him think she's content with this answer.

 

→

 

She's been staring into the dark of her room for so long that her eyes have adjusted and she can make out most of the shapes in her room pretty well. Every once in a while, Jasper gets restless, pacing around the bed. She pets him whenever he gets close enough for her to reach without getting up.

 

She's finally figured out the big, fucking secret. Taboo to humans, but not trolls. Why they didn't come back to Prospit. Why they ran away to Derse, a place with a penchant for overlooking legal papers.

 

She slips her hand into her shirt and pulls out a photograph. She found it in the photo album. It's five by five inches, and portrays two white, blond adults, and two little blond kids. On the back, in a messy scrawl, it says, _Rose & Dave & their parents._

 

She shuts her eyes. John can say whatever he wants. But nobody tampers with their own photo album for a cheap joke. She wants to tear the photo up, or at least crumple it until the faces are warped and she can pretend it's not them, but it won't change anything. It won't change her birthright.


	11. Act 2, Part 6: Hope for the Misfits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -crickets chirp-

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Six: Hope for the Misfits

* * *

 

She feels full. Like there's this tumor in her, growing and crushing all of her organs into the walls of her body, but she can't remove it. She can't even share her fear with other people because they'll just be so disgusted. Or try to lie to her again, like John.

She can't even tell Dirk. There is no way in _hell_ she can tell Dirk. Like he really needs another reason to never want leave his bed. Knowing he was born from incest, from _two siblings,_ would probably just send him tumbling over the edge of resentment for being abandoned and straight into a pit of pure and fiery hatred for their parents.

Roxy is starting to hyperventilate just thinking about it herself. She's having a panic attack, first thing in the morning. So much for “sleeping” on something to feel better about it. If anything, her numbness from yesterday is gone, trapping her in wild, unadulterated terror and disgust. Jasper meows and leaps off the bed, away from her.

Get it together, Roxy, she thinks. She didn't even know about incest being all that horrible before Jane explained it. Like, yeah, she never thought it was super normal, but she never even thought about it before then. She shouldn't be panicking – maybe, maybe the badness of incest is mostly culture bound. Like, trolls! Look at trolls! Karkat is supposedly a mutant, but what a great guy! So... so average! And all those cats Roxy mutated with her magic – they live perfectly fulfilling lives with extra eyes and stuff! Who's to say they're not perfect the way they are, even while genetically inferior? And... oh god, are they mutants because her genetics made her wrong, because her _magic_ is mutated?! Who the heck has ever heard of somebody who can give creatures complex structures like extra eyes and legs without trying, but who can't even get her magic to perform simple tasks like levitating an apple without it exploding?! Because that's what Jane says happens, right?! People born of incest are mutants, are, are fucked up in some way?!

She presses her hands over her face. She's stunted and broken. She desperately wants her mother's touch, her father's voice, and yet the thought of seeing them also makes her recoil. Who the hell falls in love with their brother, or their sister? Oh god... what if Roxy is just like them? What if she falls in love with Dirk? What if... what if her jealousy of Cronus, what if the closeness she misses having with Dirk, what if it isn't normal, what if she's a freak like them?!

She tries her hardest to shove her tears down. Nothing will change if she panics. Nothing will get better. Everything that she has learned, everything she knows, it won't ever stop being reality, so she can't let herself be miserable forever over this.

She takes a deep breath. Two legs. Two arms. Two eyes. Two ears... she catalogues her number of limbs, her intellect, her ability to form relationships. She has friends. People love her. She's not afflicted with anything that could be a death sentence.

Her breathing starts to even out. Her parents lied to her. They could've prevented her from freaking out like this, but they didn't. Within her, panic is washed over by an overwhelming sadness. She wishes she never came to Prospit. Everything has gone wrong since she came here. She wants to live in ignorance again; she'd rather risk dying in the war back home than deal with this wretched truth!

She sinks back into her covers, clutching her pillows, squeezing her eyes against a torrent of tears. This is, honestly, the worst day of her life.

→

The entirety of her Monday at school is spent bearing this incredible weight alone. A couple of girls in her classes ask her what's wrong, and she smiles and lies that it's just Dirk again. They all apologize, saying they hope he gets better soon. As she's closing her locker, she hears one girl whisper to another, _...her brother's Dirk Strider. Yeah, you wouldn't, he's not around much. He's been sick with some disease for a while..._

Roxy clutches her books to her chest. She should feel bad, lying about Dirk, but she doesn't want people to think less of him. It's gotten so bad that he'll skip stretches of school – John barely argues with him anymore. He just lets him stay home in bed. But according to doctors, Dirk's perfectly healthy. He's just “melancholy,” they say, and there's really no cure for that.

Roxy can't just tell people her brother's indifferent to school and absent a lot because he's miserable. So, she tells people he trudges through the hall and refuses to fight the most racist of professors because he's dying. He certainly _looks_ sick. He's lost a lot of weight, at least, since they first enrolled at this school. So people tend to believe Roxy.

Roxy walks out of her way to get home because she doesn't want to go through the alley and chance seeing the cats she has ruined. By the time she gets back to the Egbert residence, John's not the only one who has beaten her there. Karkat stands imperiously in the front hall, his arms crossed over his chest. When she enters, he looks away from John, ignoring all the other man is saying. “Hello, Roxy. Where are the other brats?”

“Hi, Karkat. Jane's got a club,” she answers, distantly noting how John sputters at being cast into the background. “And Dirk's... still sick.”

Karkat's thick brows furrow. “Still?” He turns to finally acknowledge John. Just not in the way the human man hoped. “What the fuck? Is calling a doctor really all that difficult?”

“They don't know what to do,” John whines in reply. “Come on, Karkat, don't lecture me about _that,_ too! You already bite my head off over tons of other stuff on a regular basis...”

Karkat's air quotes are the most vicious Roxy has ever seen. “I 'bite your head off' all the time – despite that metaphor being shit, since biting your fucking head off would kill you and be impossible to replicate without you respawning first like some undead hellspawn – because you're a fucking irresponsible, failure dipshit! Everybody sucks at some things, but the amount of things you suck at is so unnatural that you're probably fucking things up on purpose at this point! If you would just-”

John heaves a big sigh and walks out of the room. Karkat stalks after him, piling abuse after abuse on. Roxy watches him go with a small snicker. She shouldn't find him funny when he's being so blatantly mean, but hey, she _is_ twelve. She watches him go, thinking again about genetics... And remembering that, hey, a blood condition, a couple of bizarre-looking features, those aren't the end of the world. Karkat certainly seems to live a perfectly fulfilling life, so long as he has John to bark at.

She picks her head up, determined not to let this secret physically bear down on her. She is the same person she was before she found out.

If she keeps telling herself this, maybe she'll eventually believe it.

→

She buries it. She buries it under school, she buries it under her magic lessons, she buries it under pages and pages of “Wizardy Herbert,” the story she cooked up years and years ago, when her mom's love for magical adventures was powerfully contagious. Roxy writes in between classes when her teachers catch their breaths, and at night by the shaky, soft violet light of her wand. (A feat of which she doesn't realize she should be terribly proud; grimdark magic users, as is suggested by the name, work with darkness. Their spells give off a rolling, all-consuming blackness. Most users, no matter how powerful, can never make even the smallest light. Creating light is an ability limited to the white magicians.) Keeping her mind occupied by the fictional becomes Roxy's salvation from the harsh truth of her parentage.

After completing a heavily annotated arc of the main Wizardy Herbert tale, Roxy trails off into a subplot. In it, she turns the focus away from Herbert to the female main, Beatrix.

What was originally just going to be a short background story becomes a full-blown sequel as Roxy becomes transfixed detailing every little aspect of Beatrix's childhood leading up to the climax of the arc she just finished... and then, she becomes embroiled even further, developing Beatrix to the point where she outlives Herbert, and renders the character arcs Roxy used to have planned for him moot.

Beatrix's childhood is filled with woe, but she always perseveres. Even when her parents' betray her for mysterious, demonic forces. Even when her beloved Herbert gets kidnapped and drowned by a great, big tentacle beast of the Old Realm. Even when Russett and all her surviving friends turn their backs on her. Beatrix remains cute and funny and great!! And eventually, she saves the whole world!!

Or she will, when Roxy gets to that part. It's spring now, and she's still only halfway through her plot outlines. In the context of the story, she is stuck in Beatrix's childhood. Roxy's not making the progress she was hoping she would by now. But then, Beatrix is a wily character. Just when Roxy thinks she can resolve a conflict, another appears. Beatrix is one of those special characters, who refuses to let her author let her go until she's been used to her fullest potential. She practically asserts herself like a real human being. She won't be relegated to the side, as a romantic interest or as an amusing sidekick. This is her tale. She has a right to it.

It isn't enough, though.

Beatrix cries in an attic after discovering a terrible truth. Beatrix curses herself when her magic causes more harm than good. Beatrix frets because she can never save her friend and maybe crush from the black, inky depths of the ocean. Beatrix is flawed, she is human, but she is too human. The things Roxy tries to keep buried bleed through in her stories. Eventually, the dam between reality and fiction will be too irreparably broken, and writing won't be enough to hold back the flood.

→

“Derse,” Roxy says, “is suuuper dark, like, all the time. You've probably heard of the cloud that hangs over most of it. So, citizens of Derse, we're like, bats, or... moles! Running around in the dark, and we see perfectly well. But then, you take one of us, and you bring us out of the cave... or... up from underground, if we're going to be consistent with our metaphors here. And we flinch because, woah! That is a lot of sunlight all at once! Like I don't even get how you Prospitians do it. Well – okay, _now_ I do, obviously. But see my eyes? _Pink_. Very sensitive. Even more sensitive than your baby-blues, Janey. And Dirk, he's got orange, which... well, I _guess_ is kinda along the same lines.”

Jake scratches his neck. “So... you're saying Dirk's inside so much because... he's sensitive to the light?”

Roxy nods rapidly.

“And... even though you're from the same place... and have the same eye... stuff... you're not as sensitive as he is?”

“Well, _technically_ , I got exposed to straight-up sunlight at a younger age than him,” Roxy replies. “Dirk was already fourteen when we got here – that's pretty much the age when your eyes are done developing.”

Poor Jake. His confusion looks almost painful, the way his brows and mouth have twisted up. “He seemed just fine when he first got here, though...”

“He was probably trying to be polite,” Roxy huffs. “Our eyes were burning like crazy that first week here. But we had a lot of emotional crap going on that was way worse to deal with, anyway, so it kind of distracted us.”

Behind Jake's slowly nodding head, Jane looks at Roxy with her eyebrows raised. She knows, obviously, the real reasons Dirk isn't joining them today, and why he has been neglecting their company on a frequent basis for months. Well – at least, she understands about as much as anyone living in the house does. No one is absolutely certain what's wrong with Dirk, and less so how to fix it.

“Will he feel good enough in time for Jane's birthday?” Jake asks. “I mean, half of it'll be inside, so it shouldn't be too much of a strain on his eyes, right?”

Roxy shrugs. “Probably? I mean, sometimes those chandeliers can be _pretty_ brutal.” She taps the side of her face so as to indicate her eyes. Which she realizes is a little stupid-looking and unnecessary. In any case, Jake nods to show he understands. Somewhat.

“I'd _really_ like if he were feeling good enough to attend,” Jane sighs. “He's one of my best friends, aside from you two. And while I appreciate John throwing me such a big party, it's going to be a lot of his adult friends and their kids, who. Well. They're not _terrible_ people, but they're not the sort of people I want to spend my birthday with, either.” She smiles sadly. “I'd really like just a small get-together with you three and John and aunt Jade...”

“But it'll be tons of fun, Janey!” Roxy wails. “You gotta think positive! We'll make new friends tonight! And if not...”

Jake grins. “We could always hide in Dirk's room if things don't work out.”

Roxy beams. “Yeah! I mean, he'll be mad if we barge in on him when his hair looks gross, but I think he of all people would understand us wanting to get away from a crowd!”

Jane smiles. “Parties really aren't my favorite... If we end up bothering your brother, I might be fine with keeping the lights off like he tends to do,” she warns Roxy. There is a harried edge to her smile that suggests she may only be half-joking.

→

Dirk does get out of bed for Jane's birthday. He brushes his hair, he washes his face, and offers his friends a withering smile when they violently pile on him for a group hug.

“Oh,” Jane sighs, “thank you. Thank you, thank you...”

“My presence is my present to you,” he jokes. It's only after Jane pulls away at John's call to greet guests that Dirk leans over to Roxy to whisper. “Thanks for reminding me... and helping me get up.”

“It's no problem,” she whispers. She catches Jake's eye and he smiles awkwardly at her. Dirk blushes and avoids his gaze. He must feel bad, Roxy thinks, to admit weakness like this in public.

Meanwhile, Karkat has arrived with a troll woman. She is tall and elegant, curvaceous, with green-painted lips. Her sharp horns arch out of her short, coifed black hair, and one is topped by a hook like... an arrowhead, or a fishhook. Roxy wonders aloud if she's Karkat's girlfriend, and hears a titter of laughter. Jane returns to their awkward little group huddled in the corner of the kitchen.

“What's up, Jane? You don't think Karkat could hook up with a babe like that?”

“Considering she only likes other women, no, I don't think he could,” she chuckles. “That's Kanaya – she's the current jade troll, the keeper of the mothergrub.” A jade troll – there aren't any in Derse. Them mothergrub is controlled by the state. Kanaya walks with an air of nobility, and Roxy thinks she looks just like the sort of person to handle such a huge responsibility. How strange, that John knows all of these remarkable people...

Roxy watches as a pair of younger trolls, perhaps a little older than them, trail behind Kanaya and Karkat. One is the spitting image of Kanaya, if with longer hair and... many piercings, and the other one looks a lot like Karkat, nubby horns and all. “The girl,” Jane explains, “is also jade-blooded. Her name's Porrim. She's pretty cool, but we don't have a whole lot in common. She's Kanaya's ward. And the boy in the red sweater...” She releases what can only be described as an exhausted sigh. “ _That's_ Kankri, Karkat's ward. Watch what you say around him, or he'll give you a real earful on 'oppressive language.'” She doesn't air-quote the phrase, but she does emphasize it with a tone of skepticism.

Dirk's mouth twists. “So... like a mini-Karkat?”

“ _No,_ ” Jane replies, in the most serious tone they've ever heard her use. “Not at _all_. Look – don't use the terms lowblood or highblood around him. Say _warm_ blood or _cool_ blood. And don't say 'stupid' or 'dumb' – say... silly, or. Something else.”

Considering how thoroughly her parents have educated her on social manners, some of Jane's suggestions throw Roxy for a loop. Dirk slowly raises an eyebrow. “Oh... kay. Why...?”

“Don't ask,” Jane cuts in.

“If Kankri catches you saying them, you'll find out soon enough,” Jake adds with a grimace. “Though I can't guarantee you'll really get what he's saying. He uses some pretty complicated words...”

Dirk sighs. “Well... I'll try to remember that. I definitely don't want to offend anybody.” He pauses. “...I'm kind of surprised Karkat has a ward at all. He doesn't really seem like the parental type.”

“Neither did Eridan, though,” Roxy points out.

“Yeah, but... Why are we only just now hearing about this? We've known Karkat for a year, you'd think we'd know if he had a kid.” Jane opens her mouth like she wants to reply to Dirk, but then she spots the two young trolls approaching them and shuts her mouth again.

“Happy birthday, Jane,” Porrim says, her voice smooth and low. When she smiles, Roxy notes that she has dimples. Her black, shimmery clothes seem to hang right off her, and even as her neckline comes dangerous close to slipping, she makes no move to adjust it. In contrast, her companion wishes Jane a curt happy birthday. His clothes are bulky, hiding his frame, and his arms are crossed over his chest. Roxy can't stop comparing them, one the picture of the cool older girl, the other rigidly uncomfortable in his body _and_ their company. (Or at least, she assumes, by the way Kankri keeps looking at the floor and not them.)

“Your eyebrow piercings are really cool,” Roxy blurts.

Porrim grins at her. “Yeah? Thanks. I'm thinking of getting my lip done next. Maybe some tattoos when I'm legal.” Kankri scoffs in obvious disdain. Porrim ignores this. “Are you two the kids from Derse?” she asks, gesturing to Roxy and her brother.

“Yeah,” Roxy replies. “We came over a year ago.” There's an awkward pause where no one's sure what else to say. Porrim holds out her hand to Roxy. “Porrim Maryam.” She nods to her left. “The rude one's Kankri Vantas.”

“I'm perfectly capable of introducing myself, Porrim, and I would've if you'd given me a chance,” he scoffs. He watches her shake Dirk's hand without offering his own to either Strider sibling.

Roxy and Dirk introduce themselves. Then, there is another pause. Jake scratches his neck. Dirk rubs his arm absently. Jane excuses herself to welcome a few more of John's friends – also trolls, Roxy notes, plus a tall, gangly-looking white carapace woman. Roxy is immediately reminded of her own parents' preference in friends, and thinks it must've started here, in Prospit, even with their schools seeming to have been segregated. Maybe the trolls lived in neighborhoods nearby...?

Speaking of trolls, it occurs to her that if Kankri is Karkat's ward, it must mean they're members of the same, supposedly mutant, caste. And again, looking at Kankri, he doesn't _seem_ terribly hampered just by having a weird blood color... “Um, hey, Kankri. What's it like having Karkat as a guardian?”

Kankri raises an eyebrow at her as if it's a weird question... which, granted, it kind of is. “He's insufferable, really. I can't stand the barrage of ableist insults and the way he feels he has to scream to get his point across. I know it's not right to tone police, but he could benefit from channeling his anger, which is, albeit righteous, into a more polite but equally passionate method of communicating with others.”

Well, that. Doesn't actually sound all that unreasonable. Jane must've hyped this kid up to be worse than he actually is... “Yeah, Karkat can get crazy mean with the insults.”

Kankri stiffens. “Don't say that word so casually.”

Roxy blinks. “...Which word?”

Kankri sighs. “The _c-word_.” She's shocked, about to protest that she did not, in fact, say The C-word, that her parents would _murder_ her for using that word, when she realize he actually means 'crazy.' He continues. “Don't use that word so casually. It's ableist to use as an adjective not only because of its negative tone in regards to mentally ill people, but because it implies that to be mentally ill is to be less rational, to be lesser of a person, to be... perhaps even comical, if we look at the etymology of the word and context in which it is commonly used. In fact...”

To Roxy's surprise, Porrim brazenly puts a hand over Kankri's mouth. “That's good. That's a good enough explanation. Stop, now.”

He sputters, waving his arms wildly even after he's managed to clear her hand away. “Don't touch me without permission! Isn't that one of the things you women's rights cultists always rant about, asking permission before you touch a person?!”

“Don't trash-talk what's important to me just because I decided to cut your wind-baggy rant short,” Porrim says with a scowl. “I _told_ you I was going to start doing this, I gave you advanced notice.”

“That doesn't mean I agreed! You can't assume consent!”

“You're practically my little brother, I don't have to ask permission to gently tease you.”

“ _Gently?_ ”

The two bicker on. Roxy's wide-eyed gaze slips over to Jake, who just shrugs at her uncomfortably. He doesn't brave even a whispered explanation while they're so close to the offending pair, probably afraid they'll turn their anger onto him.

“There's snacks over here!” Jane calls out suddenly. She waves hurriedly to Roxy, Dirk, and Jake, silently telling them they should come over to escape the arguing pair. The three gratefully follow the birthday girl's order, tossing vague apologies and good-byes to the very occupied Kankri and Porrim as they do so.

They sit down at the counter with plates of raw carrots, vegetable dip, and badly baked things brought by guests with a sense of obligation. Roxy looks around the large kitchen and is pleased to see that it is not as crowded as her friend initially feared. “Look, Jane – there aren't too many people here! This won't be so bad!”

“And if it is, my room's always open,” Dirk says, idly shoving crackers around his plate.

“It smells bad in there,” Roxy scoffs, tossing a piece of pumpkin-flavored something into her mouth. She talks with her mouth full. “We should go to Janey's room. _If_ it starts to suck. Which it won't.”

They make idle conversation, smiling politely when Kankri and Porrim eventually join them. Jane says the cake will be later, and Jake laughs at the fact she baked it for herself. Kankri asks if it'll be vegan-friendly, and Porrim points out that neither he nor any of the other familiar people at this party are vegan. Roxy meets her brother's eyes. She can't tell how she feels about these two. He looks back neutrally, no eye-rolls, no smiles. He probably doesn't know, either.

Looking at Dirk, seeing him out of his room for the first time so long, she's filled with a warmth. He's making conversation with Jake, and seems so normal, so. Not sick. Roxy leans onto him affectionately. He doesn't brush her off; this sort of thing is so natural to them, it feels like they never stopped being this close. Roxy thinks, maybe they can pick up the pieces, brush them off, and find they were never really all that broken in the first place.

And then, the secret of her parents comes crashing through her mind like a marauder. She stops nuzzling her brother and resumes eating, staring at the counter top. He glances at her briefly, probably wondering why she rescinded her affections so quickly. But he turns back to Jake without comment.

A woman’s voice hoots and hollers, and the kids look up in time to see Jade has magicked a glass, beer and all, so that it has grown ten times its size. The adults clap, in various states of raucous and drunk, and she bows lowly.

“I hope they don't all plan on drinking that,” Jane sighs. “They're getting obnoxious enough as it is.”

But Roxy is in too much awe to care how the adults might misbehave. “That requires so much power,” she gasps. “Liquid is difficult to transmutate because you've got all these non-stationary molecules, and you've gotta, like, concentrate super hard to make sure you're multiplying them uniformly, just like you would with an object that has a precise shape and structure. Like, with the glass, she's gotta make sure it has the right dimensions even when it's larger, and with liquid...”

She trails off when she notices everyone else at the table smiling at her, a bizarre amount of affection in their gazes. She feels her face get hot. “Uh... did I say something funny...?”

“Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly smart?” Jane asks, still smiling. Roxy shrugs, looking down at where her plate is balanced on her legs. She's flattered, but she doesn't feel like what she said was that great. It's foundational information. Dirk is the really brilliant one. Jane is the model student. Roxy can't even transform a cat without giving it an extra toe...

“You sound a lot like my mom,” Jake chuckles. “She's so good at everything – science and magic and stuff. But I'm such a dimwit – I don't even feel like her kid sometimes.” He pauses, face red. Dirk and Jane look at him sympathetically, but before they can even begin to try and encourage him, he plows on excitedly. “But you're really good at that stuff, Roxy! I'm jealous. No – I'm really happy for you, because that's really splendid!”

His voice cracks and he slaps a hand over his mouth, eventually smoothing it back towards his neck and lowering his head in embarrassment. Dirk's hand lands gently on his back.

Roxy blushes, both in gratitude and out of second-hand embarrassment. “Thank you, Jake.”

Before an awkward silence can prevail, the adults cry out that the “magic beer” needs to be distributed amongst everyone at the party so that they can attempt to drain it all together. Soon, glasses are being passed around from hand-to-hand in a chain of people. Jade shows off her powers ever more by effortlessly levitating the enlarged glass of beer and having it pour into the proffered glasses without spilling a drop. (All while with alcohol in her system! Roxy watches this display with utmost envy.)

The drinks get passed down the line. Soon, they even accidentally make it towards the kids. Roxy watches in horror as Porrim takes a swig... until the girl catches her gaze, and starts to laugh. “Trolls don't get drunk, Roxy. Not on alcohol like you humans do, anyway.”

Roxy frowns. She looks around the party, and her suspicions that _all_ of the adults, not just John, or Jade, or the carapace lady, are acting stupidly. “Then why...?”

“Carbonated water,” Porrim says with a laugh. “Carbonated drinks mess with our mood similarly to your alcohol, but. Not _quite_ as severely.” She grins. “Most of this asinine behavior is just social osmosis. My guardian and the other trolls here are not all that chemically fucked up. Everyone else's fun is just so contagious to them.”

Roxy nods, turning back to the adults. A troll man dressed in dark green mage robes hands her a glass, then Dirk, then Jake. He turns away without another word, occupied passing the beer around, and Jane starts to call out to him. “Oh, we shouldn't...”

Porrim jokingly puts a finger up to her lips. “Enjoy this moment! Before another adult comes along ruins everything.”

Roxy looks down at the glass in her hand, then at her brother. He looks at his briefly, then sets it back on the table and resumes to talking to Jake and Jane, who haven't even lifted theirs. Roxy glances back at Porrim, who is giving her a thumbs up. “Whatever you want to do, kid.”

“Don't let her pressure you,” Kankri says with a sniff. He's pushed his glass far away, into the middle of the table. “Of course, you are free to practice any lifestyle you choose, so long as it is not oppressive to others. For instance, if your alcohol intake led to violence and abuse, it would be advisable for you to stop for the good of other people. And if you were perhaps drinking freely in public or discussing it with those who find alcohol triggering, it would also be advisable for you to reign your intake in...”

Roxy is nodding, pretending to listen to this laundry list of advice when she brings the glass up to her lip absently, and drinks.

It tastes terrible. She crinkles her nose. She wonders if wine tastes any better – that's what her mom always used to drink...

She holds onto her cup, but she doesn't take another sip, yet. It's a little upsetting even thinking about it, now that she's remembered. Her mom drank because she missed their dad. Because she loved him. She's loved him literally since birth. They loved each other, and then one day it all changed, and suddenly they _loved_ loved each other. Roxy cringes, wondering how old they were when they decided they felt like they were more than siblings.

“Gross, right?” She jolts at the sound of Dirk's voice. He keeps talking. “I haven't tasted mine. I'm a wimp, I guess. It smells really strong, anyway.”

“It tastes pretty much like it smells,” Roxy admits. Dirk nods. He doesn't scold her, but he doesn't praise her either. She kind of wishes he'd tell her to put the glass down.

He gets up from his seat when John announces, with more exuberance than necessary, that sweet, dear, wonderful Tavros has finished making the vegetable rolls, and they are loaded with many delicious carrots. Jade is trying to calm John down from crying over these rolls when Kankri gets up from his seat, too, saying very pointedly to Porrim, “As a young a budding _vegan_ whose needs are not being met at this party, that sounds delicious. I would prefer if you didn't follow me, as you have plenty of food options here whereas I do not.”

She rolls her eyes at him as he stomps away. “I'm _sorry_ , I forgot! Last week you were a pescatarian, you can't expect me to keep up when you change you diet _all the time_.”

She leans in to the rest of the table. “It's not that I don't think his diet is worthy of respect, but he keeps _ranting_ to me about how the rights of dairy cows _are the same as women's rights_ and I'm sorry, but no, a cow is not nearly as important as an autonomous human being...”

“Wow!” Jane says suddenly. “Look at that, Jake, Roxy, we've got. We've got to check on the cake, and make sure it's okay.”

Jake follows her urging, but Roxy lingers at the table. Porrim salutes the two cousins, seeming unaware that they're trying to get away from an uncomfortable conversation with her. “I'm sure the cake'll be delicious, and I will eat the fuck out of it right in Kankri's face.”

Jane looks to Roxy, who smiles at her, waggling her eyebrows. “You can check on the cake with Jake, I'm going to hang behind with Porrim here.” She winks, very not subtly, at her friend, who blushes, and smiles, and shyly reaches for Jake's hand to lead him away. Roxy watches them go with a wistful sort of happiness. She glances around for her brother to see he is still standing where the rolls have been put out, and is in a very heated discussion with Kankri. Neither boy's face shows emotion, but their mouths are moving rapidly, and Roxy can swear she can hear them getting louder and interrupting each other. She tries to eavesdrop, but then Karkat stomps through the kitchen, yelling about something so loud that it'll be impossible for Roxy to hear _anyone_ across the room.

So she turns back to Porrim. “How old are you?”

“About eight sweeps,” Porrim replies. She drinks, watching Roxy calculate this in her head.

“Wow!” she eventually says. “You're only, like... two years older than my brother.” Dirk just turned fifteen this past winter. “I thought you were way older, like, eight and a _half_ sweeps at least!”

Porrim laughs. “It's the piercings. And the tits,” she admits, to which Roxy giggles. “I'm constantly being told I look old for my age.”

“I wish people thought I looked older,” Roxy sighs. She mimics the older girl and takes another mouthful of beer, almost coughing at the unpleasant taste. She manages to get ahold of herself before spilling any, at least.

Porrim raises one pierced eyebrow at her. “You sure you can handle that? You're pretty young. Too much too fast will get you wicked sick.”

“I'm fine,” Roxy says, sipping again to emphasize her point. “I'm above average for my age. I can afford to lose a few brain cells!”

Porrim laughs at this. “Okay, whatever. But seriously, don't hurt yourself, kid.”

Roxy scowls, the glass against her lips. “I'm not a kid!”

Porrim's lips quirk. “Actually, I hate to break it to you...”

Roxy gives a huff. “Don't _call_ me kid!”

“I won't,” Porrim promises, putting a hand up in defense. “I won't, I'm sorry. That kind of language is patronizing. Although kid is gender-neutral enough, I get you. I myself can't stand strange old men calling me _girl._ Or _young lady –_ like, you're not my human-normative mother figure! Call me by my name or fuck off, you know?”

Roxy nods, taking another, tentative sip. Porrim says “fuck” a lot. Probably as much as Dave. And, hey – that connection doesn't even hurt her to make, suddenly. Her brain lazily sloshes over the thought of her parents, without immediately making the connection to the secret. And even then, she finds she can look at it with a bit of distance. Heck, she could probably just not think about it at all.

She finds the taste of alcohol gets a little less awful every time, especially if she's careful how much she swallows at once. Eventually, though, Porrim is looking at her kind of funny, and when Dirk returns to the table several minutes later, she rats Roxy out. “Your little sister's really chugging it.”

Dirk's brow furrows. “And you _let_ her?”

Porrim shrugs. “She isn't my kid. I didn't want to overstep my boundaries.”

Dirk sighs, slipping the glass out of Roxy's hands. “She's twelve. Do you know how young that is in sweeps? That's not even _six_.”

“Damn!” Porrim says. She smiles, probably meaning it to be apologetic, but she obviously isn't all that bent out of shape over letting such a young kid drink. “Sorry about that.”

Roxy wobbles on her seat, dangerously close to falling when her brother calmly steadies her. “I'm not four! I'm not a baby!” Roxy whines. He's talking about her like she's not even there. She really freaking hates that!

“I know you're not,” Dirk replies, soothingly. “Let's get you a glass of water. Come on.” He guides her away from the counter. Roxy feels dizzy as she walks, like the whole kitchen is floating on water and tossing them around and making her feel sick. Her brother says she didn't drink too much, judging by the level in her glass, but what the heck was she thinking drinking in the first place?

She buries her face into his side. “I was _bored._ I didn't mean to drink so much.”

He sighs as he brings her to the kitchen sink. As he pours her a cup of water, she leans against the counter. She desperately wants her footing back after that walk across the kitchen. In fact, she's feeling a little nauseated from all the rocking.

From the crowd of festive adults, John disentangles himself. He approaches the Strider siblings swaying, voice joyous. “Kids!! Kids, how are ya?”

“You gave all of us alcohol,” Dirk replies curtly, handing the water to Roxy, who gulps it down gratefully. “Roxy drank some by accident and now she doesn't feel good.”

John's mouth opens cartoonishly in shock at this news. “Oh? Oh, no!! No, I'm sorry!” He tries to pull Dirk into an embrace, but the boy shoves him away. To his chagrin, though, Roxy accepts John's offered embrace with one arm, drinking her water with the other. He upsets her glass a little, spilling some.

Dirk pulls Roxy away from the man, even as he calls after them with feeble, nearly incoherent apologies. Roxy stumbles at first with the speed at which her brother's going, but then manages to get her footing. “Where we going?” she mumbles.

“To bed.”

“No!!” She tugs at his hand. “No, Dirk, there's still cake!! I don't want to miss cake, Dirk...”

“Are you sure you won't just throw it up?” he sighs. He drags her along towards the stairs and, eventually, she stops struggling, going limp with misery. Why is her brother ruining her life like this?! She feels inordinately depressed over the thought of not getting cake... And, maaan, now _she's_ going to be the one to ruin Jane's birthday instead of Dirk! She won't be there to sing happy birthday or _anything!_ She follows her brother's tugs on her wrist down the hall. Really, this is just...

They open the door to Jane's room, to find her and Jake sitting across from each other, giggling over something. They stop, but remain happy-looking when they see their friends in the doorway. “I was wondering how long it'd take you two to find us!” Jane's smile sinks into a look of concern, however, when she sees how Roxy sways and falls into her brother's side. “Is she okay?”

“She drank a little... I was going to put her to bed when I heard voices coming from in here.”

Roxy smacks him on the arm. “I did not drink _that_ much!”

A burst of laughter comes from Jane. “Oh! _Oh!_ Poor Roxy!” Her giggles turn hysteric, made worse by the fact that she tries to apologize in between breaths. Roxy sinks into her brother's side. She starts to snort and giggle herself, for some reason unbothered by Jane laughing at her expense. This is nice! It is nice to be reunited with her friends.

Eventually, all four kids settle onto the bed together. Jane shrugs (and snickers) off Roxy's slurred laments that they will miss the cake. “I bake all the time. We can have cake when there are less drunk adults around. Tomorrow, maybe.” Her mouth starts to tremble with a new wave of laughter. “If you're not too hungover...”

She suppresses her chuckles. The group falls into comfortable conversation. Dirk tells them about his encounter with “Kranky” at Roxy's request. He explains that while he and the other boy agreed a lot on their fundamental values, Kankri had a tendency to try and talk over him, and relied very heavily on a big vocabulary and academic theories to prop him up. “Basically, he kept saying everything I said, but in a bigger and smarter way. It was really hard to find the conversation engaging when it felt like he was just trying to one-up me the whole time. Whatever – he is a little _too_ radical for me in some respects.”

“Too radical? For _you?_ Wow,” Jane teases. Dirk maturely rebuts this by sticking his tongue out at her in reply.

They talk deep into the night. Every once in a while, Dirk refills Roxy's glass of water, insisting it'll help keep her from feeling sick or having a bad headache the next day. Jane comments once or twice that she hopes everyone downstairs will follow the same example.

Around one a.m., they sing happy birthday to Jane, and she gets teary. She says she doesn't care that this became more her uncle's party than hers – this is the best hijacked birthday she's ever had, and it's all thanks to them.

Her family's terrible secret buried far, far beneath a haze of slowly dissipating alcohol, feeling rife with love for her friends and the brother who has picked himself up and proved happy and alive for the first time in ages, Roxy starts to feel like maybe everything is going to be okay. That maybe Prospit isn't the worst thing to ever happen to her. Maybe she had to come here, to meet these people, to find this happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit, porrim came out meaner than I meant her to.  
> Kankri and her will show up more later, just you wait


	12. Act 2, Part 7: Dionysus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope all the americans out there had a good thanksgiving and didn't get hurt out there on black friday today

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Seven: Dionysus

 

* * *

 

The week after Jane's party, Dirk has a mental breakdown in school. Dirk Strider has been an nobody at their school for about a year now, his infamy from when he first arrived having worn off as he sunk into reclusiveness. Now, though, the halls are abuzz with his name.

Who's ever heard of a fifteen-year-old crying and screaming just because of some dumb argument with a teacher? Well, like, everybody feels humiliated by teachers sometimes, but Strider was just _over the top_. Several boys scoff that they would've told their teacher off for talking such shit about their homes, not _cried_ like a girl, but then, that's Dersites for you. Always overemotional about everything. It's why they can't keep their government together for more than a few years at a time, right? They're a bunch of chaotic children.

Roxy feels as if she's going to bend to the point of breaking under these whispers. She fears for people asking, hey, isn't that your brother? Your country? Why don't you throw a temper tantrum? No, you're the good sibling. The one who can sit through a social studies period without batting an eye at all the unbiased accounts our teachers read from the textbooks written by Prospitian academics. _You_ understand that what is written, no matter how unpleasant it may sound, is fact. Right?

Dirk goes home early. When Roxy meets up with Jane in the hall after school has ended for the day, she says she saw her dad, briefly, when he came to pick Dirk up. He looked so embarrassed. Roxy apologizes profusely, only to be met with confusion on Jane's part. “What ever are you sorry for? You're not the one who threw a fit in class.”

This only makes Roxy feel worse. Maybe he had a reason, she thinks. But instead she asks if Jane has a club. She doesn't. They can walk home together.

Twenty minutes later, there's shouting coming from the house and Roxy and Jane sit in the tree until it stops. Flower petals in her favorite shade of pink waft from the branches and get caught in her hair as Roxy sobs into Jane's shoulder. Every time Roxy thinks it'll get better, it doesn't. He was so happy at the party. She doesn't understand how he can be so okay one day and so... _not_ the next.

Jane pets her hair quietly. She doesn't promise things will be alright. Roxy takes this to mean she doesn't believe they will be.

→

When she wakes up, her eyes are still closed and her head hurts. She scrunches up her face, imagining she's squeezing the pain out with her muscles, but predictably, the pain does not fade away. She rolls over onto her side, hair sticking to her face with static and sweat. She can't get comfortable enough to fall back asleep. She opens her eyes.

The light hurts to look at. She squints, groans, sighs. She drapes an arm over her face. She feels how her shirt has ridden up in her sleep and, instead of tugging it down, she pulls her covers up with her free hand. She fumbles as she does so, sightless, brushing against fabric and skin. A thin, taught, preteen's stomach. B-cup breasts. She's grown in height, too, only by a few inches, but it's enough that she's grown out of all of the clothes she brought here from Derse. She keeps them in a box in the back of her wardrobe, contemplating giving the scraps to Dirk so he can hem them, perhaps sew plush dolls from them for the sake of it. But he probably wouldn't. Dirk doesn't really do much of anything anymore.

She goes back to silently cataloguing this new body of hers, this strange body, trying to block out the dull ache in her skull by focusing on less awful things. Then she pinches one arm to see if she can focus on that pain, ignore the headache, but that doesn't work, either.

With a groan, she massages her face. Why? Why did she think sneaking booze out of the cupboard would be a good idea? Why couldn't she just deal with her problems like a normal kid? Jade dropping her from her tutelage was hardly the worst thing that had ever happened to her, and the witch hadn't done it out of unkindness. She just doesn't have enough training in the Old Language and grimdark's theoretical aspects to help Roxy advance her skills. They'd been at a dead end for a long time, and Roxy's training in grimdark had made her attempts at the white stuff infuriatingly difficult. The concepts were too abstract – at one point Jade was telling her to visualize a ball of light within herself and picture it growing outwards and growing with her “personal energy,” and Roxy had burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it. And so, with no propensity for the white stuff, Roxy found it pointless to continue magic lessons with Jade. (I barely have a propensity for any stuff, she thinks sourly to herself.)

Still, when Roxy got home, one sad thought had turned into another. Without magic lessons, she had no more connection to her mother. Her lying, absent mother.

She shakes her head at this thought that comes unbidden; she has started to internalize what her brother has told her. In the dark of his room, when she was brave enough to venture in to see him, he told her he felt they had abandoned them. That it was pointless for them to be separated. And Roxy held her tongue, because the truth of why their parents couldn't return to Derse, for their own reputations, for their children's right to a normal life, was hardly better than the thought that they’d abandoned their children.

And then at dinner, after Jade abandoned her, there had been Dirk, quiet as a ghost, with circles under his eyes as dark as cinders. He'd pushed his food around his plate. He mumbled vague apologies when John asked him to eat, but he barely complied. At the end of his meal he spooned his leftovers into Jasper's dish and wandered out the back door to sit on the porch, his hunched back facing the house for hours.

When she finished eating, Roxy went to sit beside him. She was quiet for a while, before she finally got up the nerve to tell him Jade wasn't going to tutor her anymore.

“I'm sorry,” he replied. And that was all. They sat together a little while longer, until Roxy couldn't bear to stay.

Now, lying in bed, she grits her teeth both to brace her headache and to express annoyance at this flood of thoughts. She remembers, now, why she slipped a glass of wine, another. She wanted to replicate that feeling of indifference, of giddiness, she had felt seemingly so long ago, at Jane's fifteenth birthday party, the last times things had been good. And it had worked – Roxy's mind had been cleared for hours. But now here she was the morning after, her aches and pains returning tenfold. One step forward, three steps back.

She rolls onto her pillow, face down, so her eyes are mercifully plunged into darkness. The bottle of wine is in her dresser, where she hid it. She'd been planning to return it in the early morning, but she can't help but think maybe she should drink another glass before she does. Maybe it'll soothe these fucking headaches – both the metaphorical and the literal.

It's been a month since Jane's party, when she drank for the first time. She wonders how she resisted for this long.

→

Beatrix dies. The story ends, for all of two hours, but Roxy ends up sobbing in a drunken haze over the pages, crumpling them up, soggy with her tears.

She returns to her original storyline, reviving Herbert as well. The quality of her writing plummets, and many mornings she wakes up to new pages, scrawled messily with little continuity between paragraphs. It's a happier story now, though. Nobody ever dies and everything is fun and when she writes it she doesn't even care she's violating her outlines, her plans, because burying her shitty feelings is really her priority right now.

Her plots, her writing style, stray further and further away from their original influences, until all traces of Dave and Rose have been blotted from the text. It's an accurate representation of real life, she thinks, and then snorts. Because she doesn't write leaky stories like that anymore. Beatrix obsesses over how cute Herbert is and doesn't give a shit if she's good at magic or not.

→ 

“My name is Roxy Strider,” she says to the cat, lifting up her dark glass. “And I am an alcoholic.”

She takes a long swig. She wonders if she could wander around the house with this thing without getting caught. Her glass is dark enough that maybe she can pretend this is just juice – rich, red juice. That smells suspiciously of alcohol. She snorts, taking another sip. John may be clueless, but she doubts she should rub her secret drinking habit _quite_ so much in his face. This isn't going to be another Jasper incident – she's going to hide this from him forever.

She's just not sure what lie she's going to tell when he finally notices his wine bottles vanishing, and starts asking what's going on. Surely he'll question the rebellious teens first and foremost. Roxy's sat through enough school assemblies to know that adults suspect any depletion in alcohol levels is definitely the fault of anyone age twelve and older who lives in the house. Roxy's counting on John's wealth, his carelessness, the sheer size of his liquor cabinet to blind him to the disappearance of his wine, though.

It's late, and so Roxy stage whispers, “You've got to introduce yourself to the group, sir.” Jasper yawns in reply. Roxy scowls and takes another drink. “Dang, Jaspy, I shouldn't've never got Jade to fix you. You're sooo boring now, like, where is your sense of fun?” She makes circles with her hands and cups them against her forehead. “Look at me! I'mma four-eyed cat.” She twists her hands against her forehead, very slowly thinking. “...Or, hey, a troll! These're like horns too, kinda. Crappy, nubby ones. Like Karkat's.” She snickers. “Or Kranky's. Hey! They're mutants like me, aren't they?”

Jasper circles a random spot on the floor several times, and then settles down to sleep. She watches him, still pressing her fake “horns” to her forehead, legs keeping her glass anchored upright so it doesn't spill onto her bed.

Drinking alone isn't terribly fun, so why the hell does she keep doing it? She takes another sip, only to realize the glass is empty. She whines pitifully. If only Jane would drink with her. Or Dirk, or maybe even John. Mister Egbert. He is quite terrible at holding his alcohol, from what she remembers. She giggles at the memory.

She reaches for the bottle by her bed and begins pouring another glass. She wonders if she could make the bottle levitate, like Jade did, all that time ago? She frowns, concentrating. It wiggles a little, then tips over onto her bed. She lets out a yelp and snatches it back, but thankfully, there's only a small spot on her covers. She starts to laugh in relief. Wine on yellow sheets! What an ugly color combination. Rich purpley red on yellow. Derse on Prospit. That's her, and oh yeah, Dirk, gross little vinegar-smelling stains on an otherwise pretty and well-embroidered household. Whoa – Roxy's hand flies to her face. That was super deep! She should write that metaphor down before she forgets.

She nearly falls off her bed as she crawls, searching, for her notebooks. The best authors write inebriated, right? On alcohol and other crazy stuff. She should totally write something right now, while she is in a prime state for creativity!!

Hours later, Roxy awakes, drooling all over the pages of her notebook. She winces, wiping it off with her sleeve. She heaves herself up on her elbows, her head throbbing once again in its nearly daily hangover. No matter how many times she drinks, she'll probably never get used to this part...

She manages to get up off the floor, rubbing her skin to feel the impressions the carpet has left there. She glances at her bedspread with another wince, seeing the stain. How the hell is she going to get that out? She shakes her head. According to the clock on the wall, she needs to get up soon, anyway. She could really go for a shower right now...

After school, she asks Jane for help removing the “juice stain.” And this excuse seems to work, up until the point that Jane lifts the fabric up to her nose, and then quietly asks Roxy if she wants to talk to her about anything.

From that moment, the two girls form a pact. Jane won't rat Roxy out if she stays safe with it. And Roxy, she refuses to tell Jane anything but what is necessary. _I just felt like drinking. It's not some big deal. I'm not some tragic teen alcoholic. I'm just a spoiled brat, rebelling for fun._ Jane may see through her ruse, but she doesn't show it. She lets Roxy do what she wants.

→

It gets so bad that Roxy drinks when it's still light outside and Jane says, “I'm at the end of my rope.”  
I’m trying, Roxy thinks. I really am. But I’m not doing this for fun. If your parents were still alive, if they were just a couple hundred miles away but chose to leave you behind, if they left you with a strange family for almost two years and never wrote, you don’t know how you’d act. You don’t know how you’d act if your brother then laid in bed all day, wanting to die. You don’t know how you’d act if you then found out your parents were actually hiding the fact they were siblings from you for your entire life.

Roxy doesn’t say these things. She takes a long sip from her glass and says, “Fucking Signless, Jane, I’m trying my hardest right now, everything’s shit and I’m trying my hardest.” It’s not nearly as pathos evoking, but at least it’s not melodramatic. Roxy loves Jane, but there are some things that it is entirely unnecessary for her to know about her personal life, and her predilection for purple prose.

John, meanwhile, is too busy to bother with the turmoil in his household. He doesn’t even have the energy to scold Dirk or attempt to charm him out of bed; Prospit’s king is busy dictating decrees to his underlings, and John has been blessed with the task of filing his paperwork and writing up documents. Roxy doesn’t have to imagine how upset Karkat is with John right now, because he’s over nearly every weekend now in John’s place, tending to the kids and the house with a bizarre efficiency as he rants about his friend’s disgusting allegiances. “Just you kids wait – your classmates are going to start disappearing, and your teachers will tell you, _oh, they just moved away!_ And then they’ll disappear in droves, and your teachers will say it’s because there are new neighborhoods, new homes more suited to their species’ _oh so special_ needs! And before you know it, you’ll be the only humans left in a school of fucking highbloods and lucky other kids’ whose parents’ noses are a darker shit-smeared brown than John’s. Just you wait – people will disappear, and nobody’ll lift a fucking finger, because that’s the Prospit way! If the government says so, turn a blind eye or _lose_ your fucking eye!”

Karkat tells them the previous king began the movement to desegregate Prospit, especially the capital city. When Karkat was a kid, he lived in the same neighborhood as the Striders’ and Jane’s parents, but he didn’t get to go to the same school as them until high school. “Private schools refused to mix for the longest time, because as private institutions, they weren’t obligated to obey the new laws like the government-run public schools were. Yeah, every species had some private, elitist school for those of their race who _didn’t want_ to mix, but I couldn’t get into those, seeing as I was never rich or a fucking highblood. Those places, schools like your parents’ and John’s that kept all but the ‘best’ humans out, existed for ages. They didn’t allow rich kids and scholarship kids of other species in until the king at the time _really_ cracked down and made segregation illegal on all fronts.” He pinches his nose. “But _now_ that fucker Kurloz is rendering that already slow, defeatist progress inept. They’re already forcing some of Kankri’s classmates to bus to different, less wealthy districts, and families are even moving out of the area for convenience.”

Dirk curls his legs up to his chest. “Sounds like it’s time for a revolution.”

“In Derse, it would be,” Karkat scoffs. “Not here. People are too comfortable here.”

“We only just got out of a war,” Jane reminds them, quietly. “If you want to write to the king or picket his cabinet when they gather to make decisions, fine, but more people don’t need to die.” This is where the discussion ends. It is hard to argue about the effectiveness of revolution when a war orphan is present.

“Hey,” Roxy says, elaborating on this train of thought. “Me and Dirk are kind of like war orphans, too.”

She didn’t mean to say it out loud. Her brother shifts uncomfortably on the couch, perhaps away from her. Jane frowns at them both. “Your parents could still come back.”

“Has John even heard from them lately?” Dirk whispers. “Because I haven’t. Not since we got here.”

Roxy doesn’t point out how long their father was gone when he managed to return. She just lays her head on Dirk’s shoulder. Orphans – but of what war? The papers in Prospit say nothing of Derse, nothing of the terror that is surely keeping their parents away from them, if it hasn’t already killed them.

In fact, the papers in Prospit say nothing bad about Derse for months, and then, very suddenly, Prospit’s mute prince sings praises for Her Imperious Condescension (as the rebels call her). An alliance is not formed, but a repartee is established. Derse is not in danger. It has never been in danger. The new queen – empress? – dictator? – is a good one, and there needn’t be any interference from Prospit, whether out of “good will” or otherwise.

Still, for whatever reason, His Majesty does not remove the armed guards from the wall dividing Prospit and Derse. 

It’s breakfast when Karkat delivers this news. Dirk sighs, slumped over his bowl, and says, “Maybe there’ll be another war, after all.” And Roxy winces at the thought. Caught on the wrong side of the wall in a war between Derse and Prospit. How terrible!

Karkat scowls. “Prospit's not going to fight Derse. We’re just trying to keep the seeds of rebellion out. I’ve told you – Prospit, unlike Derse, hates conflict. _Especially_ the government – they _really_ like keeping the masses at peace.”

←

“Give it here,” Dirk said softly. He didn’t tell her not to cry, and yet her tears were retreating. She handed him the stuffed cat.

He threaded a needle. “It’s an easy fix. He’ll have the right number of limbs in no time.”

“Wait!” His hand paused before piercing the fabric. “Can you… can you use the purple thread?”

Dirk hummed. “You’ll be able to see the stitches then. Would you like that?”

She nodded. Purple was her mom’s favorite color. “Purple is my favorite color!”

“I’ll be sure to make the stitching pretty, then.” He prepared the new thread. She watched him work, his pace slower than usual as he tried to keep his stitching from getting sloppy, but still quite brisk.

When he was done, the cat’s arm was reattached, and embroidered quite nicely. Roxy gasped. “Thank you, Dirk!!”

He smiled. “It was no problem.” Then, thinking, “I’ll make her a brother for your birthday. How about it?”

Roxy squealed with excitement at the thought. He chuckled softly. “I’ve been experimenting with some patterns…”

→

Roxy awakes to Jasper draped over her head and Jasper – the stuffed Jasper, the Jasper whose heartbeat isn’t fluttering against her forehead – curled tight in her arms. Roxy stares at her ceiling, the pounding in her head a stark contrast to the plush softness in her hands, her arms. She touches the stitches at the cat’s neck, its limbs, a bright purple, just like she wanted them to be, on black fur. It’s an imperfect toy, misshapen, bulgy in places where there’s too much stuffing and limp in places where she hugged him too tightly, but he’s perfect, really. Because Dirk made him.

All of these wonderful, imperfect things in her life. She shuts her eyes as Jasper purrs, his entire body vibrating, and she laughs. It’s not just her – she and Dirk, imperfect together, perfect together, now sharing in unhappiness together. Just like their brilliant, miserable, magically stunted mother. Just like their brilliant, haunted, funny father. A family of incongruent pieces, jumbled together out of order, pretty to look at nonetheless, an avant garde work of art rather than a well structured puzzle.

And then she breaks out into sobs, because she misses all three of them. Today is a day where she will be drinking early on. Maybe she’ll even pour it into her glass while Dirk and Jane drink orange juice. Maybe she’ll look Karkat right in the eye while she does it, and smile as he rants about politics. Maybe if she squints hard enough, she can pretend he’s a louder, angrier incarnation of her father.

She’ll start off the morning with communion. Wine and bread. A symbolic link to the life she’s been forced to leave behind, the one she’s holding onto by pathetically frayed threads.

→

“Karkat, why do you hate Kurloz so much? Is he really such a bad prince?”

He scoffs at her, disgusted. “Jane, Dirk is fifteen” – and has refused to leave the house for anything but school in months, and is bedridden most days with a deep and crippling misery, and is the product of an incestuous marriage – “and he’d make a better prince.”

→

She realizes one day that the lack of magic lessons, the fact Dirk hasn’t picked up a sword in ages, it doesn’t matter. Because, buried under layers and layers of covers, wandering the house at night with the eyes of a far older man, Dirk has plenty to remember his parents by. His mother’s misery and his father’s trauma.

And Roxy? She pours another glass of wine, struggling to focus her eyes on the slowly dissipating bubbles and ripples in her glass. She’s got this to remember her mother by. She raises a glass, a toast to another invisible person, or perhaps to a concept. And what does she have from her dad? Why, the shield of good humor, the refusal to admit anything is wrong.

She spills some wine on Jasper and he hisses and sprints out of her open door.

→

Jake comes to visit them a few times. But there’s one occasion that stands out, if only because Roxy was sober enough to remember it.  
Roxy was wallowing, for once, in the company of her brother. They hadn’t been saying much, but it felt a little better than wallowing alone. And he was above the covers, at least, even if he was in bed. He was rubbing his calves, and they were soft and sore under his hands. He was murmuring that he should exercise at some point, soon, but she knew and he knew that he wouldn’t actually get around to it.

And then there’s a knock at the door, followed by a creak, followed by light. And then Jake is smiling at them from the doorway.

“Jake?” Dirk sits up in bed very suddenly, running his fingers through his hair. “What are you...”

“I wanted to see you.” At these words, her brother turns a deep red. Jake shuts the door behind him, encasing them all back in a protective shadow. He stands before them for a moment, perhaps letting his sight adjust.

Jake clears his throat. “Dirk... I'm not too good with words. Not like you. I trip over them, I say everything too fast and too wrong, and I insult people without meaning to, and when I try to be kind on purpose, it comes out all wrong then, too!” He swallows visibly, and even in the dark, they can see his large adam's apple bobbing on his skinny neck. “But I think you're swell, Dirk. You're a real pal. And I'm worried about you, so I came by today to let you know I'm thinking about you, to let you know I care about how you are and because I'd hate to think I wasn't doing the most I could to help lift your spirits.”

Roxy turns her face to find Dirk smiling somberly. “Thank you.” He ducks his head to brush his hair out of his eyes. In the darkness, she can see the faintest hints of a blush lingering there. “I appreciate it…”

Later, when Jake leaves, Roxy follows him out of Dirk’s room and into the hallway. 

“Why even bother?” she demands. You know you ain't even going to fix him, right? You can't fix that kind of misery just with some words.”

Jake looks at her with surprise etched plainly on his face. “I know that. But I don’t think we should give up on him.” He turns his face away, towards the open front door, towards the twilight. “He’s my friend – even if I can’t fix him, I can still support him, right?”

Roxy thinks about this for a long time.


	13. Act 2, Part 8: Detox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops its later in the day than i usually update. finals (aka watching buffy the vampire slayer instead of studying for my finals) distracted me

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Eight: Detox

* * *

It’s a completely innocuous breakfast when John finally breaks the news to the Strider siblings. “I’m thinking of sending you to live with Karkat.”

Where Roxy and Dirk have been slumped over their food, they are now suddenly on alert. Their eyes boring into him with too much shock to possibly form words, John takes advantage of their silence to talk over them. “I’ve written to your parents,” he says. “And I haven’t got a reply yet, but. I've almost entirely decided. I’ve been really busy lately, and I didn’t expect to have you for this long in the first place…”

Right – they didn’t expect to stay here for over years, either. Still, it hurts, to be dropped off on somebody’s doorstep yet again. At least this time they’ve actually met the guy they’re going to be living with beforehand…

Something occurs to Roxy. “What about Jade?”

John blinks. “What about her?”

She’s thinking of her desire to adopt Jane, of the way she told them she'd rescue them from John's boring clutches if need be, of… “Well… Can’t she take us?”

John’s brow furrows. “Um. No, she’s. She’s pretty busy, with her life, I think.” He looks worried, suddenly. “Are you not okay living with Karkat?”

“Maybe if we’d been given a choice,” Dirk snorts, “we’d be a little warmer to the idea.”

John reddens, dropping his fork back on the table. “Well, I’m sorry! But I can’t afford to take care of you two anymore!” The siblings watch the light glint off the good silverware with contempt. “And I feel bad, I do, but I didn’t sign up for this! Jane is my ward, my kid by law, and I barely even have time for _her!_ Let alone time for a couple of…!”

He viciously bites his tongue, refusing to finish that thought, even as Dirk dares him to. Roxy, too tired to fight, lets herself lay her head down on the table. She stares at her shadow, and her faint reflection, on the polished wood.

→

Roxy’s goodbyes with Jane are strained. They hug for bare seconds, and they say maybe ten words a piece. Roxy wonders if Jane is grateful to see her go, to finally have the teen alcoholic out of her hair. Roxy knows it's been a burden on Jane, keeping Roxy's drinking habits a secret from John. Roxy knows she, in and of herself, is a burden. She hopes, vaguely, that Jane's life will be easier without her now, and that she'll forgive her, someday, for being so selfish.

Roxy holds Jasper, squirming, meowing angrily in her arms for the entire ride in John’s carriage to Karkat’s home. Dirk sits quietly beside her, perhaps internally seething, perhaps not really thinking about any of this at all. Roxy listens to the pounding of the horses' feet beat out of sync with Jasper's rasping yowls, and she wonders when it was that Dirk stopped caring about animals. He just flopped into the carriage earlier without a word, not even stopping to put a hesitant hand on the snout of either horse.

Karkat’s home is twenty minutes outside the city. There are hills surrounding Prospit’s capital, and it is on these hillsides where they find his “hive.” It is a white building that has two four-story towers, is vaguely castle-like… and, actually, is very unlike how Roxy pictured his home would look. There’s a lot of foliage up here, trees eclipsing her view beyond the hive, into the valleys and up the inclines of the surrounding land. Even as she winces at the brightness (and the way the bumpy ride makes her head throb harder), Roxy thinks this looks like a beautiful place to live.

Karkat comes outside to meet them, to help move the many bags of luggage they’ve accumulated after years of living with John. It’s weird, that they’ve actually gathered enough clothes and personal items by this point to seem like normal people rather than refugees.

“Kankri’s in his room,” Karkat scoffs, “despite the fact I _told_ him I expected him to help.”

Roxy gets off the hook holding only Jasper, and Dirk ignores scolding from both older men to carry only one reasonably sized bag at a time. Inside, the house is friendly, colorful, covered in decorative fabric and art and there is no way this is Karkat’s hive.

“There is no way this is your place, Karkat,” Dirk says out loud. Roxy almost laughs at how he parrots her thoughts so effortlessly.

“That's because it isn't,” John says. “Did I forget to mention? This is actually Kanaya's hive.”

“As her moirail and roommate, I'd say it's my hive, too!” Karkat cuts in grumpily. His feet begin to stomp up the steps. Not a single one creaks with the weight of his bruised ego. This is a really nice place...

“You live with Kanaya? Since when?” Roxy asks.

“Since he got kicked out of the knighthood and lost all the money I loaned him,” John replies, all-too cheerily.

“I didn't get kicked out of the knighthood, I left it!” Karkat scowls at him, monochrome skin suddenly taking on a massive amount of color. “Fuck off, John – if I'd had rich, half upper-caste guardians, I'd be swimming in job offers, too!” He balances the bag he's carrying on one shoulder to jab a finger at John. “And if Kankri were down here helping us like he was supposed to be, he'd be giving your ass an earful about privilege, you whiny little fuck!”

John laughs. “Why are you so mad at me? I already told you I don't care if you ever pay me back, that was a gift between friends!”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, the way you keep bringing it up, you'd think it was a loan from the mafia, not a god damn gift.”

“I'm not trying to lord it over you, I just like to tease...”

“Yeah, yeah. You just keep telling yourself that, Egbert.”

Thankfully, there is a spare room for the Strider siblings. Roxy laughs when she sees it – one room! For the both of them! They're right back to square one. “Look, Dirk,” she snickers. “Just like home!”

Dirk replies with one syllable. The others can't decide if it sounds more like an indifferent huff or a defeated sigh.

John hangs around awkwardly for a while after he has helped put the last of the luggage away. He determinedly makes small talk with everyone, cheerful, perhaps to the point where he's refusing to acknowledge that this might be a difficult day for everyone else. Eventually, though, Karkat's uncharacteristically short, sharp rebuffs and Roxy's refusal to laugh and smile along with him drive him away. He excuses himself, citing a prior appointment, and just like that, John Egbert is out of Roxy and Dirk's lives.

Well. Until they see Jane and the like again, anyway. Roxy wilts at the mere thought of it; everyone must hate them by now. They're terrible friends; all they do is mope. Maybe Jane really _won't_ want to see them again.

Kanaya doesn't return until night falls. According to Karkat, it's because the mothergrub is happiest in sunlight. The creature is a rarity amongst those native to Alternia in that way; most lusii, hell, most _trolls_ were nocturnal before they were forced to adapt to life on the Skaian continent. But not the mothergrub. The mothergrub thrives during the daytime in sunny environments like those abundant in Prospit. “To avoid the majority of the predators in her natural habitat!” Roxy shouts with a wobbly fist punch to the air. Karkat affirms this, and tells her, quite ironically, to quiet down.

Kanaya greets the Strider siblings with a nod of the head to each, evidently not a touchy-feely person. Kanaya, as a jade-blooded troll, is the keeper of the mothergrub. The government pays her a hearty salary to make sure the mothergrub is properly cared for. (Roxy wonders with a cringe if this includes insemination.)

“Porrim's still back in the caves with the grubs,” Kanaya tells Karkat. “She's trying to help some of the lowbloods make it through the obstacles to the holding center in the depths of the cave without getting hurt.”

The trials, Roxy remembers. Baby trolls have to make their way out of their eggs and to the mouth of the cave on their own. If they survive, they are “viable members of society,” and the jade troll will take them from there to a government-sanctioned facility that, despite its many euphemistic official names, is really just an orphanage. “Isn't helping the grubs cheating?”

“So long as she doesn't kill any of the other grubs, I'm perfectly fine with her helping some,” Kanaya replies drily. “Limiting the number of infanticides is a priority in a civilized society, you would think, but there are times where I feel as if I never got on the boat, and I'm still in Alternia.”

“Especially with that shitbag prince of chucklevoodoos running the country,” Karkat grumbles.

Dirk doesn't say much, but he remains nearby on the couch at least, his legs drawn up to his chest. Roxy imagines the discussion interests him. He hasn't heard adults speak this freely about politics since... since the last time Karkat visited John's, actually.

“It doesn't surprise me Porrim's doing that,” Karkat says, suddenly. “She's always going against you, but not in a whiny, shit-baby way. She doesn't rebel to rebel – she always has a cause.”

“She's still not sure if she wants to inherit the duties of our caste.” Kanaya sighs. “In any case, I appreciate that she isn't rebelling like a fussy shitting infant, because if she were to injure the mothergrub, or to interfere with my duties in any way...”

“She's trying to figure out what's right for her. And she's doing what she thinks is what's right, period, while she's figuring it all out.”

Kanaya nods. “Yes... yes, I'd say so.”

They pause, thinking. Roxy wonders if Porrim got those other piercings she wanted. She also wonders if Porrim will be able to point her to the booze – she hasn't had a decent buzz in at least twenty hours, what with all the packing and sleeping and traveling. In fact, John was around her a lot, almost as if he was keeping watch over her...

Naw. He probably just wanted to pretend to give a shit about Dirk and her by paying a lot of attention to them before he dumped them on Karkat. A last chance for him to establish that he's the minimum level of asshole.

Jasper curls up on Roxy's lap, and she is reminded of something. “Thank you for letting me keep my cat.” She sighs. “I guess if we'd stayed with Jade, we'd have to give Jasper up... I mean, she has that dog...”

“You sound disappointed, that she isn't the one to take custody of you,” Kanaya points out. Karkat scowls. “What, am I not good enough for you?!”

Roxy looks to her brother. He stares back at her, mouth pursed in a thin line. He's obviously not going to talk, so now it's going to be her job to diffuse Karkat's temper, while almost completely sober. Fun.

“It's not that we're not grateful to be staying with you,” Roxy replies, slowly. “...in Kanaya's hive. We're just feeling a little rejected at the moment, ya know? I mean, this is the second place we've been kicked out of – we're starting to feel like nobody wants us!” She rubs her aching temples. “Jade wanted Jane so bad, because that's her niece. But she didn't want us. And I get it, you know. We're not related to her. We're just her friends' kids, her friends who she hasn't even seen in years...”

Karkat raises his eyebrows. “Jade would've taken you in, but she was busy trying to get her ass out of the city. Because unlike her brother, her thinkpan isn't filled with festering dogshit.”

Roxy's eyes widen in surprise. Is Karkat lying to make her feel better? “How far away is she going? And why – because of the political stuff...?”

“She's not going too far away. She was going to be in charge of you two, but then she managed to find a job offering _away_ from the prince's royal band of psychos, and... well, can you _blame_ her for getting out of there?!” Roxy feels a wonderful, light feeling gradually rising in her chest as Karkat goes on. “She begged me to take you guys, and I agreed because I'm apparently the only one left with a sense of duty to your fucking parents.”

Kanaya clears her throat. “A- _hem_. Considering this is actually my hive where you invited them to live, and I agreed to let them stay, I'd say I too have a 'sense of duty' to Rose and her husband.”

Roxy feels a surge of hope gallop wildly through her heart. Jade really didn't abandon them! Roxy also notes how confidently, unflinchingly, Kanaya refers to Rose and Dave as married. There's none of the cringe that was always creeping into John's expression whenever someone brought them up around him.

They knew. All of these adults knew, because they grew up with her parents when they were Rose and Dave Lalonde, siblings just a year apart from each other. Roxy doesn't blame John for being disgusted and confused. She doesn't blame him for flinching. But the way Karkat and Kanaya breeze over the mere mention of her parents as the would any other friend...

Roxy thinks the fresh air and the rolling hills here will do her some good.

→

Still, she could use a _little_ booze to ward off this headache. When Karkat and Kanaya have settled into bed in their respective rooms, Roxy sneaks back downstairs to search the kitchen for a liquor cabinet. But there's not so much as cooking wine to be found.

She's rummaging through a breadbox when a low, smooth voice sounds behind her. “What are you looking for?”

When Roxy whips around, Porrim is standing behind her, grinning. She looks even more gorgeous and mature than she did that night at Jane's. She's wearing the sort of slim-fitting black dress one would think was unsuited to running around in caves, and a glance at her legs shows greenish scratches and bruises all over. The grubs, Roxy realizes. She must have just got back. She's been helping them all this time...

“Is there any booze in this joint?” Roxy asks. “I'd prefer wine, but beer, ethanol, mouthwash...”

Porrim chuckles, the sound like smoke wafting from a fire. “Did you forget? Trolls don't drink alcohol.”

Roxy's face falls. “Oh. You don't even keep it for parties with human friends...?”

“I'm afraid not,” Porrim replies. “Sorry.”

A heavy breath passes between Roxy's lips. This sucks. Porrim offers her a cigarette as a replacement, but Roxy politely declines. The taste and smell of alcohol she managed to get over, but she doesn't think she'll ever see smoking as anything but gross.

Porrim wanders into another room, and, after hesitating for a few minutes, Roxy follows after her. When she reaches the doorway, Porrim pats the empty couch cushion next to her, and, drawn like a dog to its owner, Roxy goes and sits.

The older girl asks her how she likes the place. Roxy thinks it's okay. She fans her face to keep the smoke away.

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. When Porrim has finished two cigarettes, she says she's going to go to bed, and the girls ascend the stairs together. Long fingers with black-painted nails brush Roxy's for a long, deliberate moment in the hall. Warmth spreads across Roxy's chest.

“Pop into my room any time,” Porrim murmurs into her ear. And then she's just long legs, a well-toned back disappearing into her room. Roxy stares after her a minute, even after the door has closed, curiously flustered. Then she makes her way back to her own room.

Her body thrums in the dark beneath the sheets. In the next bed over, her brother is snoring.

→

_Pink hands brush her own._

“ _It's not so bad. It's how we came into this world, isn't it?”_

She wakes up in a cold sweat, the arousal of her dream just barely slipping off into the darkness. Her heart pounds, not in desire, but with fear as she remains, sitting up, staring at the foot of her bed. The room is quiet. Her brother has stopped snoring. She doesn't look to see if he's awake, too, or just sleeping more deeply than before.

She doesn't lay back down for a long time. Even then, sleep doesn't come easy.

→

Kankri is still prone to wearing bulky clothing. He greets Roxy when she comes down to breakfast with a very long and winding speech about how sensitive he is going to be to the Striders and sensitive topics regarding them while they are staying, so long as they themselves remember to acknowledge his own triggers. (“To put it shortly... If you check your privileges, I will check mine.” He says it with such sincerity that Porrim nearly spits out her cereal from laughing so hard.)

Roxy watches with amusement as Karkat works around the kitchen, making terrible instant-meals and tidying up here and there. And then Kanaya pulls her traditional sylph's veil over her hair and leaves for work, for the caves nearby where the mothergrub resides. (“A nice subversion of gender roles, eh?” Porrim asks with a grin, to which Kankri heartily rolls his eyes.)

Kanaya asks where Dirk is just once. Roxy mumbles that he's not feeling good that day. “Well,” Kanaya replies, “I suppose he will come out when he is ready.” And the subject is, miraculously, dropped.

During the school year, Kankri and Porrim take a long bus ride into the closest city school, which is where Roxy and Dirk will be joining them. The two tell Roxy stories of times they've confronted teachers – Porrim says she “argues,” whereas Kankri dances around what Porrim calls “lecturing” by saying instead that he informs his teachers on “less oppressive means to meet their ends.” Karkat pulls Roxy aside later and says he and Kanaya have a bet going on about which kid is going to be sent down to the headmaster's office first. Porrim seems like a prime candidate, but Karkat has his metaphorical money on Kankri. “Porrim's more prone to passion,” (As in yelling and swearing, Roxy thinks) “but I've never wanted to ring her neck until I eroded it with the blind force of my fury like I have with Kankri.”

“He's polite,” Roxy admits, “but in a not-so-nice way, like...”

“He's condescending.”

“Right! He'd get along with Derse's current queen, no problem.” Her Imperious Condescension. She still remembers the time the new monicker rolled off Karkat's tongue and she'd felt, for an instant, like she was back home in Derse again. “He could probably nab the title from her, no problem!”

→

Fresh air can only do so much. Soon, the headaches get worse. Every movement is like rocking an invisible boat, and a nausea a hundred times worse than anything Roxy's ever felt on her period racks her insides.

Then the day comes where she looks around the room and, sucking a panicked breath between her teeth, hisses, “ _Spiders,_ ” and then collapses where she stands. When she wakes up, she looks at the ceiling above her bed and sees a big one. It wanders for a few moments, legs blurry and shifting, and then it gives a shake, and then, suddenly, there are more spiders, tons of tiny, tiny spiders swarming outwards from the biggest one over the rest of the ceiling, enough that if they piled onto the lights, they could plunge the room into darkness. Roxy has just witnessed birth in the most horrifying way possible.

She flinches and whimpers and sinks under the blanket. “Dirk,” she whines. “Dirk, the spiders...”

He doesn't answer her. She's gripped with a fear that he's asleep, and she'll have to go this alone. But what if they fall off the ceiling, what if they land on the bed?! She imagines she can feel them dropping, their infinitesimal weight hitting the quilt and crawling forward...

She screams for her brother over and over again. To her surprise, she does not hear bed covers rouse, but footsteps, and then the door to their room is opening. “Roxy? Are you okay?”

So Dirk wasn't in the room this whole time? Ugh, she just had to get sick on a day where he feels good enough to get up, didn't she? Stupid, stupid, useless...

She tells her brother, in a trembling voice, that she wants him to kill the spiders. There is a pause. “...What spiders?”

She whines. “How can you not _see_ them?! They're all over the ceiling, and I think I feel them on my bed...”

Still protected under her covers, she stares at the way the light hits the fabric. She is starting to zone out, to forget her brother is here, when something grabs the covers and pulls them back, startling her. “ _No-!_ ”

“Roxy,” Dirk sighs. “There are no spiders.” But she sees them!! On the ceiling, they... They're a little blurred, like pores, maybe, dimples in the paint, but... “They're there!! Look, they're so gross, ugh, _please_ Dirk...”

He glances up, sighs, and then shakes his head. “There's nothing, Roxy. You're dreaming.” He frowns, reaching forward to brush her sweat-slicked bangs out of the way. “No... you're hallucinating because you're... sick.” He looks so sad, suddenly. “I'm sorry, Roxy. I should've stopped this before it got this bad.”

What is he talking about? “You dork,” she mumbles, speech starting to slur. “Just 'cause you're good with a sword doesn't mean you can literally fight off illness...”

He just keeps looking at her, worried lines between his brows. “Just promise me, if you find alcohol again, you won't drink anymore...”

She's surprised to hear him acknowledge it. She smiles at him dreamily, suddenly exhausted, her mind drifting away. “I promise...”

Her dreams are pleasant, for a while, at least.

→

She doesn't see any spiders after that, and the next few days pass by similar to ones she spent with a massive fever in childhood. She alternates between being too cold and too hot, and these flashes of extreme temperature make her anxious. She heaves over a trash can once, but never throws anything up, and has trouble sleeping despite her exhaustion because her head thrums with a confused mess of stressful scenarios. Maybe she'll never get better. Maybe she has ruined her body permanently. Dirk's fingers touch her forehead while checking for fever, or putting a cooling compress over her head. She arches into his touch, as if starved for it, and then jerks violently away.

But it's different being sick here than it would've been at John's house. It's different now, for her, than it was for Dirk when he first started getting sick. Because sometimes, it isn't just her brother in her room, attending to her needs. Sometimes Porrim comes in and offers to help walk her to the bathroom, or just sit and talk with her. Sometimes Karkat comes in with his usual snarky, standoffishness, and then when he leaves, there's something nice, something sweet on the little table by her bedside. Sometimes Kanaya comes in and presses her gentle hands to her head, and asks Roxy if she would like a book, because they have quite a few downstairs that may be to her interest.

She used to be the only one who cared for her brother. It was the siblings alone, with some visits from Jane and very occasionally Jake. But here, it's different. Here, the adults don't just give worried, helpless looks at breakfast. Here, everyone in the house is interested in Roxy's recovery, and is candid in their affection and wishes for her to get well.

Roxy thinks of how, when she started drinking, she also started to leave Dirk behind. She was too busy dealing with her own emotional stuff to bother playing nursemaid to him anymore, and would only ever venture into his room to drop off food, because he'd starve himself otherwise...

“You should eat better,” Roxy mumbles out loud to him. He pauses, in the middle of spooning soup into her mouth.

“...Okay,” he agrees quietly.

“I know you forget sometimes,” Roxy mumbles, sitting up so she can eat a little easier. “And I know you don't feel hungry, so you think, what's the point of getting up? But it's important to eat, even when you don't want to or don't think you have to.”

“...For somebody talking about the importance of eating, you sure aren't eating this soup.”

She takes the soup spoon and slurps its contents down. She doesn't even spill it, taking it from him; she must be getting less shaky. Her body must be adjusting. She's adaptable; she got used to the change in atmosphere and light in Prospit, didn't she? “I mean it, Dirk! You're ridiculously skinny compared to when we left Derse. And you were years younger then!”

His hands twist and rub together. “...I know. It's hard, sometimes, though it shouldn't be. Eating.”

Roxy smiles at him. “When I get better, we're going to work on you next. I'll nurse you back to health, too!”

He smiles, but reluctantly. Her own cheerfulness fades. “Dirk, what's wrong?”

He hesitates to reply. “If you don't succeed... please don't feel you've failed me. I won't be easy to fix.”

“Bt there's nothing I can't heal!” Roxy declares. “I mean, you might have an extra eyeball or two afterwards, but you'll just have to live with that!”

They laugh quietly together. When she finishes eating, he cleans up her bowls for her, despite her insistence that she wants to try to walk downstairs and do it herself.

Later, Porrim comes in with a book of “fairy tales that empower women,” and reads them passionately to Roxy and Dirk. Kankri comes by halfway through the first story, and rolls his eyes from the doorway. Roxy notes that he doesn't leave, though; he desperately wants to be apart of this companionship.

“You can come in,” she offers, “if you want to hang with us!” But then he says he is busy, and skitters away like a nervous rabbit.

Porrim tells Roxy not to worry about it. “Next time, just let him hang by the door. He'll come and sit if he really wants to.”

This is the environment in which Roxy comes to recover from her alcohol addiction.

→

It's Roxy's last morning in bed, recuperating. She's scribbling the first coherent words to be written in her notebooks for a very long time when her brother comes in, looking somber as always. She's impressed, with all he's managed to do for her these last few days. She wonders if her withdrawal was what he needed to finally _feel_ something, to want something...

Ooh, healing oneself by caring for another – she should cover that theme in one of the upcoming chapters of Beatrix's backstory. She writes some vague notes in the margins as to how she may accomplish this while Dirk moves around the room, adjusting the covers of his bed so he can sit down comfortably. She thinks she'll need a scene where the characters _talk_ to each other, quite candidly, about their respective illnesses...

“What are you writing?” Dirk asks.

It takes her about a minute to reply. She needs to capture her thoughts before they fade away forever, brilliant ideas wasted on the abyss of poor short term memory. “ _Wizardy Herbert._ Well. One of the stories in the series, anyway. They're not really about Herbert anymore.”

He smiles. “Isn't that the same story you've been writing since you were, like, four?”

“Not _four,_ ” Roxy huffs. “Five at the _least_.”

He smirks at that. “How are you feeling today?”

“Perfect,” Roxy says, lips splitting to reveal a genuine grin. “I'll probably wander downstairs today. I just feel like lazing around right now, doing some writing. That's the only reason I haven't gotten out of bed yet – it's hella comfy right here.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” Dirk starts to settle into his bed with a book. “Maybe your sickness has finally passed.”

She circles the words in the margins three times with her pen. “You don't have to talk around it, you know. I wasn't just 'sick' these last few days. I was going through withdrawal.”

There is a pause. She looks up from the pages of her notebook to see her brother's actually giving her his full attention. “...Okay,” he says. She's disappointed by the lack of climax, but she'll take it.

She frowns, the subject of honesty reminding her of something else. “Do you know if... do Porrim, and Karkat, and all them... do they know?” There's a pause, before she recalls her own words. “That I've been going through withdrawal?”

Dirk shakes his head. “I doubt it. Their immunity to alcohol means they're not likely to be familiar with the symptoms of withdrawal. And I think, save for Karkat, none of them ever saw you drunk.”

Roxy blinks. “You realized I was drunk during the day? In front of Karkat and everyone?” And you didn't say anything?

Dirk hesitates, gaze falling away from hers. “...You slurred your words. You could barely stand up.”

“I don't care how I looked.” Roxy scowls. “You noticed I was drinking and you didn't say anything.”

“I'm sorry.” He apologizes automatically, almost without really thinking about it. “I should've done more to help you.”

“I'm not asking you to be sorry.” She really isn't. She doesn't know precisely what she wants of him, but she knows she has no use for apologies this late.

He fumbles with his gaze and she starts to feel guilty, asking anything of him. She's temped to return to her writing, in the hopes the subject will drop. She can bury herself in fiction and erase this feeling, of being owed something.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Dirk's looking at his palms, like there's something cradled in the center. But they are empty. “Why did you start sneaking alcohol in the first place?”

The image of Porrim's fingers shaped like Dirk's flashes violently through her mind, making her skin crawl with the echoes of revulsion. She turns her face away so she won't have to look at him while the dream is so close to her, just outside the borders of her mind.

She can't tell him the truth. So she settles for something that will shut him up. “You're not the only one who's sad, bro.”

He doesn't press the issue. After a long minute, she hears his bedcovers shift, like he's turning to his attention back to his book. She notes, sadly, that she was more honest than she meant to be. And it accomplished nothing. She curls up, her covers falling so she won't have to look at Dirk, so the shadows covers up her notebook's margins. Apparently, both characters have to be fully invested in honesty for it to have any effect.


	14. Act 2, Part 9: Two Steps Forward, Three Steps Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a weird monday update!! finals have me a little distracted. next friday i'm busy again, so the next chapter will probably go up on the weekend or monday like this one.
> 
> no recuperacoons in this universe. karkat and the gang are doing just fine without sopor slime in canon, and hey, this is an au, i can do what i want

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Nine: Two Steps Forward, Three Steps Back

* * *

 

Roxy feels as if she spent the last week being beaten by a blunt object, or running nonstop laps around the surrounding mountains, or being trampled by horses. She thinks some fresh air will do her some good, as well as help her get the feel of this new place. She says as much to Dirk, and he smiles wanly in reply. He gets out of bed and slowly, laboriously, goes about washing and getting dressed.

They eat a short breakfast and then wander out into the heady midsummer air. It's cooler here than in the city – less carbon dioxide, Roxy thinks, fewer gold buildings reflecting harsh light onto each other. Dirk is quiet, and when she glances at his face, he looks troubled. She asks him what's wrong and he hesitates, before apologizing for being “boring.” “I don't feel like I'm as good at conversation as I used to be. I'm sorry I don't have anything witty to say.”

“We're siblings, Dirk,” Roxy snorts. “You don't have to impress me. We can talk about the weather or how big this house is or other lame crap and it'll be fine. We can even do the whole companionable silence thing, you know?”

He nods, but he doesn't seem reassured. She links their arms just so she has an excuse to touch him, to keep him close.

There are no houses near Kanaya's, so they're free to wander wherever they want without consequences... Although, when they pass the thick pines and reach the mouth of the cave, they hesitate. Kanaya hasn't told them not to go in, but Roxy feels the risk of interfering with the troll population is too great to want to explore, however carefully and innocently. So they just look at the mouth, and imagine what it looks like inside, and then turn and go. “Porrim says we'll get to see the mothergrub, anyway, because she likes sunshine, and gets tired of being cooped up with babies all the time.”

Dirk hums. “They talk like she's a person.”

Roxy shrugs. “Lusii are smarter than regular animals. They're in between the higher species” – carapaces, humans, and trolls – “and creatures like cats and dogs. They're way smarter than dolphins and monkeys, even.”

Dirk frowns. “It's scary. How they're mostly dead.”

Roxy turns her face up to the sun. “I always thought... you know, because we haven't properly explored the sea... that there might be more out there than we realize. And maybe even on other continents...”

It's a nice thought, at least. They wander back in the direction of the house after Dirk quietly requests they do. He looks haggard by the time they get back in the front door, despite not having gone very far or for very long. He stays downstairs within Roxy's view instead of disappearing upstairs, but he curls in on himself, like it's a lot of effort for him to be where people can see him.

It's going to be a long, arduous process.

→

There aren't any horses here, but given Karkat's time as a knight, there are plenty of weapons lying around. Well – not lying around. They're locked up safely in a shed in the back, but with his permission (and under his watchful eye), the Strider siblings decide to give what they find there a try.

Karkat has them go through basic exercises. They swing at the air, at trees, at each other with practice blades. After trying a few different weapons, Roxy finds she prefers the bow and arrow. It isn't a perfect fit, but she has good aim and doesn't like the impact of a handheld weapon like a sword or Karkat's preferred sickle. Dirk, on the other hand, takes back to swordsmanship, but slowly, and without the enthusiasm Roxy was hoping he'd have. He cuts out early, leaving Roxy to spar with Karkat on her own. She loses numerous times when her mind wanders back to her brother – _at least he's trying.That's something, right?_

He told her not to feel like a failure if she couldn't fix him. It is with this thought in her head that she hits Karkat's heart with her mock-blade – and he smirks. “ _Finally!_ ”

She's not going to let herself be negative. This change of environment, it's a chance for a clean slate, to lay down a strong, fresh foundation.

Maybe Karkat will eventually send them away from here; she can't bring herself to trust what these many strange adults in her life will eventually do with her. But she reminds herself that no matter what, she and Dirk will always be together. They'll never be uprooted if they're planted firmly with each other. So that's what this is – vines forced apart by circumstance, by animals or lightning or human clumsiness, finally winding their way back together, green and codependent organisms.

→

Roxy returns from the sweat and exhilaration of training to the sobering sight of her brother's still form lying in bed. She said she was going to stop at nothing to help him – now she thinks, adrenaline and sunshine still pumping through her veins, this is her chance to prove she really means that.

She swallows before she speaks, her fingers gripping the doorway for support. “Are you okay, Dirk? Do you want to go for another walk with me?”

She's grown used to the sound of his voice muffled by his bedcovers. “I don't want to be around people.”

She worries her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. “Maybe if you sit up and read a little, you'll feel less crappy. I could open the window and let light in...”

“...I don't see what's wrong with me just laying here. Please leave me be.”

Jasper rubs against her leg, meowing needfully. It's the only sound to break the silence as she stares at her brother's form, thinking, calculating. “Dirk, I think you'd feel better if...”

“Don't tell me how I feel.” She bites back her words at this. She wants to help him, but she doesn't know how.

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs. Still, she hesitates, an invisible force keeping her feet planted when her brother probably wants nothing more than for her to leave. But she can't, yet. Not until she takes on all for which she feels responsible.

“Did I bother you today?” she asks, voice dripping with shame. “I'm sorry, I just wanted to spend time with you...” She wants to know why he's in bed when he was fine twenty minutes ago. She wants to know if she drove him away.

The covers shift. “...It's not you, I.” He swallows the trembling in his own voice. “I wasn't. Sure I could hold it together.”

He stops there, suddenly. The covers are still pulled tightly over his face. They twitch a little, but there seems to be no movement to lift them. She wonders what he looks like under there.

“...Don't suffocate,” Roxy says, reddening when she realizes how harsh it sounds. She sputters for a moment, until, unable to summon the words she desperately needs, she gives up. She turns to walk away, only doubling back to shut the door, so he knows she's gone.

She feels defeated as she descends the stairs. She tries to remind herself that this is just one battle of many; a single loss never decided a whole war.

→

Given that Porrim and Jane were both significantly older than her, and yet Roxy felt infinitely closer to Jane than she feels to Porrim, Roxy doubts that the age gap is the cause of her inability to connect on a deeper level with Porrim.

What it might be, though, is the way Porrim wears her age. She purrs feminist theory is a voice like heady incense, and smiles at Roxy like all she has said is wrong, but a harmless, naïve sort of wrong. And. Well. There's also the fact that Roxy wants to kiss Porrim's face off, whereas she never wanted to do more than platonically cuddle Jane. So much for only liking boys.

“Our moms used to date, you know,” Porrim says one day. She's drawing swirling patterns all over a crumpled recipe Karkat's using. He demands she move so he can look at it again, snorts at her drawings, and then goes back to slamming cupboards and bowls around. She smooths it onto the counter with her lithe hands when he's gone again, over by the stove, grumbling angrily about magic energy and whatever happened to good old-fashioned steam power. “Maybe it runs in the family.” For some reason, the way her lips spread over her teeth when she smiles seems almost obscene.

Roxy coughs. “I-I didn't know that,” she confesses. For some reason she thinks of John, and what Jade said about him proposing to her mother. “I also didn't realize you called Kanaya Mom...”

Porrim shrugs, licking her lip piercing idly. “'Mom' is more convenient than 'guardian.'” She grins. “Kankri hates when I 'appropriate' words.”

Porrim is looking at her expectantly. Roxy shrugs, says, “Hell, I don't mind.” Because really, she doesn't. Words like 'mom' and 'family' make it easier to categorize the Vantas-Maryams, and their relationships that are so abnormal to trolls and yet so highly familiar to Roxy.

Porrim tilts her head, smirks. “So, 'mom' isn't a _sacred_ word to humans?”

Roxy thinks about this insincere question for a long moment. “...It is. But if you love somebody enough, if she looks after you and loves you... I think you have a right to decide to call her Mom.”

Karkat shows up suddenly behind Porrim. “That's not appropriation,” he snorts. “Appropriation is when highbloods wear the shackles around their necks as a fashion statement and completely disregard how _fucking important_ that symbol is to people who've been crushed by their assholery for hundreds of years! That fuckers who have _everything_ would take something that's a symbol of rebellion and strength for those who have jack shit else and flaunt it like a fucking _trinket_ is the most _fucking disgusting_ -”

Karkat is seething, jaw rigid, teeth gnashing, vein popping out in his forehead, and Porrim half-heartedly pats him on the arm. “Calm down! Shoosh! Or whatever the fuck Mom does to get you to stop being all crabby. Shhh!! Shh. Shut up.”

He calms down, but just barely. He gives Porrim the stink eye. “You're going to make a terrible moirail one day.” She shrugs at him. He scowls. “But do you get it? _Sharing_ isn't bad. _Stealing_ and _fucking ruining_ is.”

“Like how Kankri appropriated my yogurt?”

“Or the Empress appropriated the capital of Derse?”

The girls laugh as blood rushes to Karkat's face yet again. They end up being chased out of the kitchen. As Roxy runs, her lungs alight with giggles, she wonders what would've happened if Kanaya and Rose had stayed together. She wonders if Rose is where Dirk gets the whole wanting-to-kiss-the-same-sex's-face-off thing, or if it's really even genetic like Porrim says.

Porrim grabs her hand and steers her deeper into the house. Roxy feels blood rush to her face, and thinks, if it is, then she got it, too.

→

In her dream, Porrim has Dirk's hands and his torso and his face and his lips which press against hers and moan _like mother, like daughter,_ and when Roxy wakes up, she wants to cry or scream or break something or all of the above. It takes her a long time to calm down, to rake her hands through her hair so that she's not pulling it out, to hold back the whimpers lest the real Dirk hear her and wake up and ask what's wrong.

Her throat is as dry as a desert.

→

On the third day in a row that Dirk won't get out of bed, Roxy calls upon Karkat for help.

For all his harshness, for all of his anger, Karkat has thus far proven to be a better guardian for them than John. Roxy doesn't hate John, but she can't help but think that, when he'd agreed to take the Strider siblings, he wasn't at all prepared to deal with the heaps of emotional baggage that they came with.

Karkat is far from tender. But he talks to them like they're people, not children – he's not afraid to engage in “grown up” discussions with them, and he knows when to back off of sensitive subjects, even if he grumbles while doing so. Roxy's seen enough glimpses of his softer side, even hidden under countless layers of angry words, to feel he might be able to help her brother.

So she tells Karkat that she's scared, when Dirk can't bring himself to get out of bed. She tells Karkat it scares her when he says he hates Prospit too much to get up and face it, that he both hates and misses their parents too much to do anything but hate and miss them from the comfort of his bed. Karkat sighs at her - “What do you want me to do, pull him out by his leg?” - but he gets up, and heads upstairs with her regardless. She lets herself perceive this as progress.

“What did John used to do in these situations?” Karkat asks, gripping the railing.

Roxy watches her feet as she walks. “He'd tell Dirk to stop being sad, and tried to offer him stuff, like, horseback-riding lessons, to trick him out of bed.” Eventually, though, he stopped stopped trying. During those last months that they lived with the Egberts, John's work with the government took up all of his spare time.

Karkat gives a frustrated sigh. “Well, I can't offer him shit like that, we don't have the money!”

“It's okay.” Roxy shrugs, avoiding his eyes. “It never worked, anyway.” Karkat doesn't reply to that. When she looks at his face, his eyebrows are narrowed, and his lips are pursed. He looks angry to the unfamiliar eye, but he's thinking, concentrating.

Roxy hangs outside the room she shares with her brother, peering in through the doorway, but Karkat goes right in, flipping the light switch on as he goes. He sits down on Roxy's bed so that he's facing her brother's bed.

The mass of covers that is Dirk shifts slightly, then, after a pause, turns over, his face exposed. He rubs his drooping eyes, and Roxy wonders if he was asleep when they came in. “Ah, Karkat...”

“Your sister's worried about you,” Karkat says. “Which I'm sure you know.”

Dirk is still for a moment, brain still stuck in the mire of sleep. But then he realizes what they are talking about, and he his face reddens in shame. He lowers his gaze. “Um. Yeah...”

Karkat leans forward, his hands on his knees. “You spend all day in your room. You want to tell me why? Your sister always told me you were sick with something.”

Dirk wilts. He stares into his mattress, as if he doesn't want to answer, but Karkat doesn't leave him be. “I won't scream at you. If that's any consolation.”

Dirk lets out a small laugh. “Kind of...” Still, he hesitates to answer the question.

Karkat sighs. “Kid. I'm not telling you to pour your blood-pumping chest sac out if you don't want to. I mean, if you want to, go the fuck ahead. Just tell me, why the hell do you never leave your bed?”

Dirk's teeth close around his lower lip with a harsh bite, but then he mercifully releases it. “...Roxy's wrong. I'm not sick. I'm just miserable.” He sets his jaw. “I don't make any effort to meet anyone halfway, I. I _try,_ I _want_ to want to try, but I just don't. And that's shitty of me.”

Roxy watches, awestruck, as Karkat's black pupils constrict, to the point where she can make out the blood-red of his irises.

“Who the fuck told you that wasn't a sickness?” Karkat asks.

If Dirk keeps curling his body up, at this rate he'll be in the fetal position again, burying himself in his covers, lost... “Hey – Dirk, I'm serious! Being so fucking miserable you can't bring yourself to get the fuck out of your room is a fucking sickness!” Dirk stops, gripping the edge of his covers like the hull of a ship, refusing to drown just yet.

“You're so unhappy you don't want to do anything, right?!” Karkat clenches his fists. “Everything feels pointless and you hate yourself for abandoning people, and maybe you hate some of those same people for leaving you behind! You hate that you can't seem to accomplish what you think are the simplest tasks so you don't bother having to encounter them, choosing to hide away before you embarrass yourself! You're miserable to the point where you can't even live your life like you did before you got this depressed, you want to do things but you also don't want to and you don't give enough of a shit to want to do them so everything's just so much more _difficult_ and – having a tumor that fucks with your mind or bleeding out of random orifices or stabbing pain in your chest interferes with your life, that's the worst part of being sick! Not being able to do shit you want, because your sickness fucking mercilessly suppressing your ability to live – isn't that what your misery is doing to you right now?!”

Throughout this rant, her brother has been lifting his head. Little by little, Roxy watches him uncurl himself to watch this man explode in rage over the fact that Dirk thinks he isn't sick.

“Fuck every asshole who told you it was all on you, that it was all your laziness or some such fucking bullshit!” Karkat jabs a finger in Dirk's face. “We're going to nurse you back to health! And don't even start with that defeatist you-can't-fix-me shit!”

Roxy gives a jolt at the severity of this wording. “No!” They look at her, Karkat's eyes narrowed, Dirk's blown wide with bewilderment.

She swallows before going on, as confidently as she can. “What he means by that, Dirk, is that you don't have to see yourself as hopeless, because you aren't! You can get better!” She comes fully into the room now, standing before both of them. “It won't be easy, but you can take your time with us! You can take all the time you need to feel better because we're here to support you!”

Dirk lets out a single, awkward syllable before he turns his face away. He's blinking pretty fast, and biting his lip, and... suddenly Roxy and Karkat are both uncomfortable, because does he want to be alone while he cries?

After some deliberation, Roxy makes the first move. She comes to sit beside her brother on his bed, and he moves to let her sit with him. He sits up fully, swiping his sleeves at his face, trying his hardest to keep his eyes covered while he has an emotional breakdown in front of his sister and his parents' childhood friend. Some words jumble out of his mouth, something that sounds like thanks and self-deprecation and how much he hates Prospit, to which Karkat replies with a snort and a, “We definitely have that in common.”

→

The days of sickeningly blasé crows of “cheer up!” are finally over. After his explosive rant on the validity of Dirk's misery, Karkat has joined forces with Roxy in the battle against said misery. Instead of guilting him for his inability to get up and socialize, Karkat lets Dirk lay in bed, coming in as he did when Roxy was sick to talk to him in a bizarrely gentle (but still characteristically gruff) way. He shares stories and rants with him that Roxy swears make Dirk's covers shake with involuntary laughter. And, when Dirk is too tired, too emotionally burnt out by social contact, Karkat and Porrim and Kanaya and, on the rare occasions he visits, Kankri, will file out of the room without a fuss.

Roxy writes Jane to let her know not only about Dirk's easier smiles and reviving interest in the things he used to love, but the end of her alcoholism. “They don't really keep booze up here, so I figured, you know, I'd focus on being the next great Dersite author instead,” she writes.

Her friend is thrilled to hear this, judging by the many exclamation points in her looping, powder-blue script. “Must've been a must-needed change of scenery! Fresh air sure does wonders!” And Roxy thinks that, in a mostly metaphorical way, Jane's right. Because here, with the unashamed companionship, the affectionate teasing, the way everyone talks openly without fearing arguments, Roxy thinks her brother (and, maybe, she herself) can breathe freely for the first time since the train dropped them in Prospit.

One afternoon, Karkat tells Dirk his life story. He says he's alive at the mercy of a jade-troll who found him and hid him from the government, it was also by her mercy that he eventually came to Prospit. His arrival with the jade trolls and the sacred mothergrub, and the presiding king's anti-discrimination policies, meant he was awarded citizenship. In another life, he'd have had to forge papers and run to Derse, if he even survived to adulthood in Alternia, but, he thinks, that may not've been a bad life. A harder life, maybe, but a more fitting one. At least he wouldn't have had to put up with the elitism of the Prospitian school system, the courts, the upperclass brats who constantly whispered behind his back.

Roxy sits in on Karkat and Dirk's makeshift therapy sessions, and on this occasion, she asks why, if Karkat's an adult with the power to go wherever he wants, he doesn't just leave Prospit behind.

Karkat shrugs and says he feels too much of an obligation; Prospit may be stable, it may be war-free, but perfection of this country is still a long, long way away. Prospit, even without the public violence and fear he'd experienced in Alternia, was still a hostile environment to grow up in. And – Karkat gets a little red here – he hates to think every little mutant and lowerclass kid who's coming after him is going to be treated just as shittily as he was.

He's always been working to enact change – first from the inside, when he was a knight and their king was a great man, and then from the outside, after the prince took over and turned the whole operation too sour for one man to salvage without a bloody revolution. “Not to mention I'm dirt poor, so I can't really move away. Not with the nearest country I can run to employing the queen of genocide, murdering the fuck out of lowbloods.”

Dirk's pulls his legs up to his chest until his mouth is hidden behind his knees. “You sound like my parents... That's why they wouldn't come with me and Roxy to Prospit, to escape the turmoil.” He narrows his eyes. “They felt more obligation to their country than to their kids.”

Karkat scowls. “Is that what you think? That your parents just abandoned you?”

Dirk shrugs. Karkat gives an angry huff. “Your parents are assholes, but they're not _assholes._ They initially _left_ Prospit and all of us behind just to give _you guys_ a good life.”

Dirk rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. You know, I've been thinking about that, and I can't see how coming to Derse would've benefitted them in any way. Derse is a harsher country than Prospit. You can get in illegally and start your life over more easily, sure, but what guarantee was there that their life would be better in Derse than it would if they stayed in Prospit?”

“Mom was super young when she had us!” Roxy cuts in, frantic. “Young moms are always everybody's emotional punching bags, so, like, it makes _sense_ she'd run away from home. People were probably shaming the crap out of her.”

“But how would dealing with that be easier in Derse than in Prospit? I love our country, I do, but it's not _that_ much more advanced socially speaking than Prospit.”

Roxy shifts uncomfortably on her bed, unsure how to answer that. She looks over and sees Karkat has a glint in his eye that makes the nervous thrum in her chest get worse.

“...So what do you think, Dirk? Your parents went to Derse because they thought it seemed interesting?”

“That's so stupid,” Roxy huffs, cutting anything else Karkat was about to imply off. “I mean, of course they wanted to get away from people they knew, people who were going to judge them for being pregnant so young! I mean! Think of how easy Mom got work in Derse! That would never happen in Prospit!”

Dirk cringes. “She didn't get work _easily_ , she got it luckily, because the queen took pity on her.”

“No – don't say that!” She's offended by the thought that their mother is anything less than first choice. “The queen chose Mom because she was the greatest seer in Derse!”

“Hence her powers disappearing every time she got the least bit upset?”

Roxy balks at that, but she won't let Dirk think he's won this argument. “Don't badmouth Mom. Don't talk shit about her just because you're upset about something else-!”

“I'm upset because she fucking _left us_ , Roxy, she and Dave both!” Dirk is sitting up fully now, and the way he raised his voice makes Roxy shrink back.

She sees Karkat's face narrow, transforming in anger at her brother's aggressive displays to silence her. “Hey,” Karkat says. “Quit taking your shit out on your sister. She's right, anyway – your parents left Prospit for the sake of your reputations. The Lalondes were well-known in high society Prospit, and the scandal of their two offspring becoming pregnant so young...”

Roxy's breath hitches. Dirk looks puzzled. “Lalondes? _Two_ offspring?” His mouth tastes the words like that of a foreign language, pronouncing the sounds with difficulty. Roxy realizes he's never heard their parents' maiden name before.

Karkat's mouth moves for a mere moment after the sound of his voice cuts off, like a badly-timed ventriloquist’s act. Then it hangs open there, almost comically so, as he realizes what he's said. Roxy, too, imagines her own face is a picture of melodramatic horror, but no matter how she tries to twist her mouth, the secret is rising to the surface, bubbling, ready to break her facade apart at the seams.

“Uh,” Karkat flounders. “Offspring. Just one. Offspring. Lalonde was the name of Dave before he-”

“You mean Rose!” Roxy cuts in. “Mom would have to be Lalonde because _humans take the man's last name when they get married_.” She looks pointedly at Karkat. “Mom was Rose Lalonde.”

Karkat returns her look with a quizzical one. He wants to ask her how she knows – she can tell from the quirk of his brow, his open mouth, and she prays, _drop it, just accept my help and fucking drop it._ What Roxy wouldn't give for the power of telepathy!

She can tell by the way Dirk is looking at them – hell, she can tell just by looking at Karkat herself – that they are far from convincing. “You two are acting weird,” Dirk says. “Like you're hiding something from me. What is it? What's up with our parents that you don't want to tell me?”

“Nothing,” Roxy says in what she hopes is a cool voice. She shrugs, her limbs heavy and awkward. “You're being totally paranoid, bro.”

Dirk is staring at them both still, and Roxy is holding on to the pathetic hope that this will all pass over when Karkat sighs. “This is idiotic. To the point of just being fucking vaudeville – look.” He addresses Roxy, even as she tries to avoid eye contact with him. “You obviously know what's going on here. I don't fucking know how, since John and your parents both were bent on hiding it, but I think it's about time somebody lets your brother in on the truth.”

Her mouth opens wide in horror. “What?! No! No he can't! He's emotionally fragile, you can't tell him!”

Dirk protests being called fragile somewhere off on the side, but Roxy is too preoccupied with Karkat pushing the issue. “Roxy. Come on. You dealt with it fine, I don't see how-”

“ _Fine?_ ” She laughs, in a loud and bitter way she didn't realize she'd been holding in. “I didn't handle it _fine_. I wouldn't call drinking myself into oblivion _fine_.”

“Someone _please_ tell me what's going on,” Dirk whispers into the angry silence.

Karkat and Roxy hold each other's glares, vibrant pink meeting crimson. “Our parents,” Roxy says, “stayed behind because they wanted to protect their friends and their country.”

“Then why is Karkat acting like that's not the whole truth?” Dirk snaps. “You're hiding something from me!” He bolts upright, onto his knees, glaring at the two who will not meet his eyes.

“Roxy,” Karkat warns. “This isn't fair.”

Fair! The fact it's fucking true at all isn't fair! “Dirk hasn't been this happy in ages,” Roxy snaps. Suddenly, she turns to her brother. “It's nothing. I swear to god it's nothing! We're full of shit, don't pay attention to us!”

Dirk accuses her of gas-lighting him just as Karkat's hand grips her arm. “ _Roxy,_ ” he hisses. “I know this is fucking tragic to you humans. I mean. I _don't_ get it myself, but I get that it's a big deal _for you_. And I know you're worried about your brother. But he's sitting _right here,_ listening to everything we're saying.” She turns her face to look and, yes, there he is, face clenched in worry, keeping silent despite the fact he must be brimming with questions, with exclamations of frustration at the way two other people are deciding what is right for him. In that vein, Karkat continues, “He's made a lot of progress. We can't decide for him what he deserves to know. He's asking.”

“Only because _you_ made the stupid mistake of revealing there was something he needed to know,” Roxy grumbles in reply. Karkat doesn't emotionally react to this comment, and she wonders if he heard it. He must have, though. They're the only people in the claustrophobic little room, the only source of sound in the whole fucking house.

“Roxy,” Dirk whines, “just tell me _what the hell is going on_.”

So. It just has to be her. She shuts her eyes for a brief moment in that way her mother always does when she has a big decision to make. Roxy doesn't have the kind of magic ability that allows a person to see the probable outcomes of a decision... although that certainly never stopped Rose before.

If this breaks him, Roxy thinks, she won't be able to relinquish responsibility for this. Even being backed into a corner like this, forced to consent, she won't ever be able to tell herself that things could've gone differently.

Roxy purses her lips and nods. Dirk looks between the two people sitting before him, at his sister who lowers her eyes, at the adult who nods, gravely, agreeing to take the bulk of the responsibility.

Karkat turns away from Roxy, who sinks into the comfort of a shameful slouch, to lock eyes with Dirk. “Rose and Dave,” he says, “are brother and sister.”

Dirk's mouth opens and closes a few times. He lets out a hollow bark of a laugh, as if he thinks it's a joke, but falls silent with terrified eyes when he sees Roxy and Karkat both are somber, unsmiling.

Karkat goes on.

“Rose and Dave didn't come back to Prospit because your grandparents are still alive and well-known here. If anyone recognized your parents and realized that the kids the Lalonde girl had in high school didn't belong to some mysterious stranger, but the person you two would be calling Dad, the person everyone else would recognize as her _older brother,_ you and them both would be treated like shit by everyone in the capital. Everyone would know what was going on. You wouldn't be able to have comfortable lives. So they sent you here without them in the hopes that you two, at least, could be safe. So, if it makes you feel any less shitty, Rose and Dave really _couldn't_ have come with you back to Prospit...”

Karkat barely gets to finish his sentence before a scream tears its way out of Dirk's chest.


	15. Act 2, Part 10: Do We Not Bleed?

Act Two: The Prospit Years

Part Ten: Do We Not Bleed?

* * *

 

“No,” Dirk whispers, voice hoarse. “No. No, no, no. Y-you're lying, this is some fucked up joke!”

“It isn't,” Roxy grumbles. “I found yearbooks in John's house-”

“No!” Dirk covers his ears and shakes his head, trembling harder than Roxy has ever seen him tremble. “No, that's wrong, that's so _wrong!”_ He starts to cry full-force, his face twisted with the effort to hold it all back. “I-if that were true, it'd mean, it'd mean we were fucking mutants, it'd mean-” he chokes “-is this why I'm so fucked up? Is this why I can't... _function_ like a normal human being, is this why I'm such a miserable piece of shit?! I-is that how this happened?” He bows his head, curling, curling in on himself like a structure collapsing. “Their fault,” he sobs. “They fucking _damned me_ the moment they conceived me and abandoned me so they wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of their fucking sick-!”

Karkat clears his throat. He raises his voice, not in anger, but in order to get a word in over Dirk's frantic verbal breakdown. “For trolls, it's normal to mix the genetics of literally everyone-”

“Yeah, it is, and that's how fucking freaks like you are born, right?! Because you're inbred, because you can only stave the gene pool off so much before people like us starts to happen!”

Roxy is shocked her brother would make such a remark, but Karkat doesn't so much as flinch. Dirk is quickly losing his cool, stumbling off his bed to his unstable feet, hands clenching, arms waving violently as he talks, and, to Roxy's ongoing horror, he strikes at Karkat. But the older man grabs his wrists before he can land a blow, holding tight even as he tries to yank them free. “Dirk, _calm the fuck down-_ ”

“I want them to tell me themselves!” Dirk sobs. “I want to see them, let me see them!”

Roxy isn't sure what Dirk's talking about until Karkat replies. “There's a war going on, of course you can't fucking see your parents!”

“I-!” Dirk's rants are dissolving into incoherent sobs. He squeezes his eyes shut. “ _Why?!_ ”

He continues to struggle violently against the older man, until the only tactic Karkat can devise to suppress him is to trap him in a bear hug. Roxy, temporarily stupefied by her brother's reaction to the news, narrows her eyes and clenches her fists. “Dirk, calm down!”

“How the fuck can you _say that_ like it's _easy_ -”

“Dirk, we are still the same people we were yesterday!” Roxy 's getting rapidly angrier with him. “We're the same people we've always been! Knowing... knowing _that_ about our parents doesn't change anything!”

He's struggling less, now. He has to make an effort to twist his face so he can look at her, and while his face is anguished, his orange eyes blaze bright with pain and fury both. “It's not that easy, it _can't_ be that easy to get over-”

Roxy clenches her fists and hollers, “ _I_ got over it! I dealt with it without you, without _anyone!_ ” She jabs a finger at him accusingly. “You have no right to react like this when you've got a _whole house_ of people you can confide in! John lied to me, he lied to my _fucking face_ when I asked, so I just had to pretend I didn't know to make him and everyone else feel better!” Her hands unclench, falling by her sides. Her eyes grow softer, less narrow. “But you have _me_ , Dirk! And Karkat, and...” She falters, suddenly unsure how to wrap up the point she was making. “...You have people to help you through this, who love you regardless of who your parents are, so show us some freaking appreciation and _calm down_ already!”

Karkat grits his teeth. “Roxy, that isn't helpful at-” But to his surprise, Dirk seems to have stopped struggling. When they look, tears are running freely down his face, unhampered by swiping hands or clenching face, and his anger seems to have utterly dissipated. All that's left is an exhausted, miserable shell. Roxy swallows, feeling her own temper cooling at the sight of her brother like this, and so her next words are said without any hard edges to her tone. “Dirk... it's okay. It's... gross, I know, it's so gross, but _we_ can't help how we were born, and. Because it isn't our fault, we can't hate ourselves for this...”

Dirk becomes totally limp in Karkat's grip, and cautiously, the man lets the teenager go. Dirk slumps forward, onto the floor, hands coming up to cover his face. “But... but we're not _normal..._ ”

Roxy lowers herself to her knees in front n her brother. When he's hunched over like this, she has an artificial advantage in height. “Dirk...” She puts her hands on his shoulders, and although he flinches, he doesn't try to move away.

In the distance, down the stairs, they hear Kanaya call out, asking what's wrong. “I'll take care of that,” Karkat says. He looks at Roxy meaningfully before shutting the door behind him, leaving the two Strider siblings alone together.

Almost as soon as Karkat is gone, Dirk uses one trembling hand to shove the tears from his eyes. “How... how long have you known?”

Roxy doesn't try to school her face to look kind. “I found out a few months before Jane's fifteenth birthday.”

Dirk chews on his lip a moment before replying. “You've known for that long...”

“I didn't want to tell you because I didn't think it'd be much of a consolation.” Roxy shrugs. “And I guess I was right.”

“A consolation...?”

“Because they didn't _want_ to leave us behind.” She thinks of the time she eavesdropped on Jade and John, what they said. “I mean. Our parents are okay, staying and fighting, but they would've come with us, like Karkat said, if it didn't mean public humiliation...” If her parents had come along, Roxy realizes, Dirk and she would have been forced to learn the truth, anyway. “They didn't abandon us, Dirk. But knowing...” She stumbles over the words. “...this, them not abandoning us is hardly reassuring.”

Time seems to tick by slowly. Roxy wishes Karkat hadn't turned the light on when he came into their room earlier, because everything is too sharply focussed. She can see every line of misery etched onto her brother's face, she can see every patch of dry skin on her hands, she can see the wrinkles in their clothing. She can see everything that reduces them to base humanity.

“I thought...” Dirk's adam's apple bobs. “I thought maybe they didn't want us. I thought maybe, maybe it wasn't even for convenience, for our safety. Maybe we were just in the way of the life the wanted, I mean. Rose and Dave had us really young, and. They were always so devoted to revolution and doing the right thing, I thought I just. I thought we ruined their lives.”

“Don't say that,” Roxy whispers. “They loved us...” She pauses. For one moment, two. “...They loved us!” Her brother jumps in surprise when she grasps his shoulders and pulls him out of his bowed position, so she can look into his face. Everything about her body language has changed; she has straightened up her posture, her entire face bursts with emotion, and, what's more, her voice is alight with joyous realization. “They loved us! They loved us so much – and maybe, maybe sometimes, they didn't show it perfectly! But they loved us a ton, Dirk! And even if, even if they...” She can't say it. Even now, trying to reassure Dirk and herself about it, she can't say it bluntly. “...are the way they are, even if we were born that way, they loved us and did everything they could for us! They left us behind because they knew it'd be best for us, even if it hurt them! And... and that can't be wrong, right?! If they loved us so much, maybe that other thing isn't quite so bad, because they made the best of it, and raised us right!”

Her chest is thrumming. She feels like she's having a huge breakthrough! She feels like this is her first step to not just burying the issue, but actually coming to terms with it. But the look on Dirk's face, the way he isn't smiling with her, it's making her doubt herself, doubting her own attempts at inner peace.

To her surprise, Dirk doesn't comment on what she has said, even to argue against it. Instead, he lowers his eyes, and murmurs, “I haven't been here for you. You had to deal with this alone.”

Her eyes widen. Seeing him so sad makes her feel guilty for being annoyed with him earlier... “Dirk, no, I was mad when I said that stuff. You couldn't have known I was unhappy, I mean, I hid everything from you-”

“But I should've known you were hurting, too. We should've been sharing this.”

He slips his hands into hers and a smile, smooth and natural, blooms across her face. “You mean like, misery loves company?” she asks. “Be depressed together?”

“You know what I mean,” he sighs. But then he smiles at her, if wearily. “Mutual suffering, mutual care.”

Roxy makes him swear with her that they are not worthless. They can do whatever they want with their lives. Their birthright still fills the both of them with dread, and they avoid saying it outright, dancing around it with vague terms. But even as it looms, it doesn't have to hold them back. All the dreams and hopes they had before – they can still be whoever they want, and love whoever they want, and return to Derse and their parents, and they deserve all of those things.

From now on, when Dirk needs to talk, he'll trust Roxy. And when Roxy needs to talk, Dirk will listen. They are each other's constants. It's their duty to watch out for each other.

→

There are certain things, of course, Roxy cannot talk to Dirk about.

Porrim teaches Roxy how to use makeup, and after experimenting with many severe shades, Roxy decides she likes light pink and purple eyeshadows and black lipstick, like her mother wore, the best. Porrim laughs and says that Roxy's lips looks like a troll girl's, and asks if she wants to compare with the real thing. Roxy politely declines, her skin flushing a light pink through her foundation.

In any case, this bold lipstick choice is what she wears when the Vantas-Maryam-Striders head off into the capital city together. Karkat wants to show the Strider kids the Signless chapel – not in the hopes that they will worship, but in the hopes that they will reach a better understanding of lowbloods as a result of the trip. “You already go to school with mostly trolls, you might as well learn some of our _real_ history. And, yeah, it's trolls, none of that 'Alternian-Prospitian' bullshit. Kankri is Prospitian, not Alternian. He was born here. The hyphen is just fucking disrespectful at that point. The same goes for Porrim, almost all of your classmates, and most of their guardians.” Roxy and Dirk figure it will be a decent distraction from Dirk's recent horrifying revelation, and so try to spend the trip in earnest, focussed on what Karkat has to tell them. If anything, Roxy thinks, today is her brother's first day of life knowing what she knows. He deserves to spend it out of bed, with people he likes.

Karkat explains that the “Signless” was a mutant-blood at the very bottom of the hemospectrum, a man without a blood caste, and thus without a caste crest to bind him to anyone. The Signless led his fellow lowbloods in peaceful protest against the oppression of the Alternian Empire's highbloods, up until the day he died... when, in the throes of agony, he cursed his oppressors and screamed for justice. He was tortured to death in front of hundreds of people for having the audacity to suggest that maybe the empress shouldn't commit genocide anymore, and many followers to this day have taken his last words as a cry against his previous teachings of peace and patience. “Of course, there are many different interpretations of his last words, just as there are of every miniscule word he's ever uttered.”

Roxy takes a wild guess that throwing aside peace for the sake of righteous anger is, probably, Karkat's favorite interpretation. Porrim laughs when Roxy whispers this in her ear. “Some people take it farther than that, though – the Summoner was a famous warrior and follower of the Signless who took his dying cry of anger to mean that the lowbloods must rise against the highbloods in a violent revolution. His rebellion failed, but many people have adopted him as a makeshift saint,” Porrim explains. She grins. “I like his style, personally – Karkat acknowledges his sainthood, so I've grown up with a respect for his side of the argument. Of course...” She shrugs. “I'm not really a follower of the Signless, period. He's got great ideas, and there were a lot of important woman-followers in his legacy, but something about the gender dynamic still doesn't sit very well with me. Maybe it's just the way our local organization interprets it, but I'm not really into the religion.”

“Technically, it's a philosophy, not a religion,” Kankri pipes up, lips curling in annoyance. “You need a deity to be a religion...”

His lip-curl of disdain is matched by Karkat's own far more violent version. “Technically, I'll break your jaw if you say that again.”

“Please don't threaten violence against Kankri,” Kanaya sighs. “We are in a public place. Wait until we get home.”

Kankri does not find her comment terribly amusing. He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls the rest of the way up the block to the chapel, where they stop outside. An argument breaks out when Karkat openly cringes at a troll decked in violets who enters the chapel. Kankri is furious with his guardian, going on and on about the important of “allies” who can “use their privilege for good,” whereas Karkat's counters with something about “safe spaces for people who never get safe spaces because whiny shitty assholes who have everything already insist on encroaching on them.” Roxy can't entirely follow the conversation (maybe because, in the face of her discomfort, she doesn't want to). She glances over at her brother to see that he seems as deeply engrossed in the conversation as if it were a particularly thrilling novel.

“They have no right to be here!”

“While I agree that as the oppressing class, they have access to many safe spaces-”

“ _The world_ is their safe space-”

“-I must point out that many of the Signless's followers were members of the upper castes-”

“Who fucking _betrayed him to the empress_ -”

“-and to tell upper caste persons that they cannot enter a place whose function is meant to be inclusive is a sort of reverse hemo-racism-”

“ _Are you fucking kidding me?!_ First off, that is _not_ a fucking thing that exists-”

“Technically lower caste trolls are the ones who watched the Signless die, anyway, aren't they just as responsible for bringing him to his death?”

“You expect a bunch of unarmed untouchables who are bound to be targeted by soldiers and pointed out for gruesome, wholly legal murder to face off against said armed soldiers to free a man who the empire had named as number one on their shit-list? You have the putrid, rotten, underdeveloped nerve to imply a bunch of lowerclass citizens with no access to psychic training could take on the most powerful fucking chucklevoodoo users on the god damn continent?! Really, Kankri?” Karkat throws his arms into the air in exasperation just as Kanaya buries her face in her hands for the same reason. They are standing on a crowded sidewalk. People are _staring at them._

Unbothered, Roxy's brother has his chin in his hand, and is calmly pondering this argument. Roxy whispers, “Should you break them up?” But Dirk shakes his head. “We're not qualified to intrude.”

“Oh, I'm not asking you to argue,” Roxy replies, keeping her voice low, “I just mean, should we try to change the subject, or-”

“When I was three sweeps old, I barely left my hive for fear I'd be fucking murdered over a papercut!” Karkat thunders. Porrim groans and mirrors Kanaya's gesture. “Not this rant again...” 

Karkat is shaking he is so angry, but Kankri isn't backing down. He glares up at his guardian defiantly as he points at him and cries, “You run around bleeding all over the place, and no drones come to kill you, you privileged little shit! And what the hell do you use your fancy Prospitian education for, huh?! You stay in your room all day and reduce everything to abstract theory, and then spew it out of your mouth at me like so many billions of gallons of shit out of a gaping asshole!”

Their argument derails into petty personal attacks on one another. Porrim drags her hands down and off her face as she sighs. “It's so fucking hot out – can we go?” she asks Kanaya.

Kanaya frowns. “Are you going to be attending service today?”

“No.” Porrim shrugs. “The Striders need somebody to hang with while you're all attending, anyway.”

Kanaya sighs. Roxy figures it's best to stay out with Porrim, since Karkat seems really unhappy with the idea of just the wrong _trolls_ going in, let alone humans.

After a sugar-coated smile and eyelash flutter from Porrim, Kanaya relents. “Fine. But don't stray far, please. Dirk, are you going with them?”

“Eventually,” he replies, never taking his eyes off Kankri and Karkat. “I want to see this through to the end, first.”

“Suit yourself!” Porrim crows. She grabs Roxy's wrist. “Come on!”

As Porrim tugs her away, Karkat screams, “You want to talk about allies?! Be your own movement's fucking ally, get off your lazy fucking ass and _do something!”_ Roxy looks over her shoulder and catches her brother nodding, his face smooth as he concentrates on processing the information at hand, his eyes glinting with a brand of delight Roxy hasn't seen in him in ages. She's a little jealous that she isn't the one to cause it. But happy, of course, to see him happy at all.

They really don't go far. Porrim drags Roxy to a spot behind the chapel. There are the concrete walls separating the chapel from the bookshop next door, and whatever establishment is located behind it, and then there is a wall that connects to the chapel itself and blocks them off from the place beyond that wall.

The space can best be described as pathetic – it is not really a yard, since yards, Roxy thinks, usually have grass, not just dirt and a concrete walkway. There's a dilapidated shed, although Roxy has no idea what could possibly be kept in there, since this “yard” that is really an alley doesn't seem like anyone ever tends to it. Maybe they keep important, churchy stuff in there – Roxy doesn't really know how all that works.

Porrim sits down on a concrete block. She pulls out a cigarette and a lighter, and Roxy once again declines. She thinks it'd be better for her lungs if she sat a little ways away from Porrim, but the only other stack of cinder blocks is rather close to her and too heavy to bother moving. And so, to avoid sitting in the dirt, Roxy just settles down right next to her older friend, lungs be damned.

“I feel so out of place here,” Roxy admits. “In the church, I mean.

“But not in a dirty alley?” Porrim snorts. “Yeah, I get that. You _are_ out of place. This definitely isn't the kind of haunt humans visit regularly.”

The comment stings, slightly, but Roxy brushes it off, reminding herself that Porrim's just being honest. Porrim goes on. “Sorry you had to see that fight – I mean, you should really be used to Karkat doing fucking triple flips off the handle by now, but I still don't feel like it's all that fun to watch.”

Roxy shrugs. “It's okay, I guess.”

Porrim pauses to take a drag. When she exhales, she scowls. “Shit, I can never make smoke rings... But you know, Kankri freaking _hates_ this place. He's so ashamed of his heritage.”

“Heritage?”

“Aw, come on!” Porrim grins. “You haven't made the connection? The Signless was off the spectrum? Karkat and Kankri are off the spectrum? This is their _legacy_.”

A biological “inferior” who started a religion and gave hope to thousands. Roxy smiles at the thought.

They're alone for a long time. Eventually, Porrim leans in. Feeling a spark of nervousness, Roxy glances up at the windows on the back of the church. She can't see anything or anybody in them; they must be tinted. But what would it matter if they weren't? This sort of thing is normal to trolls.

Roxy's first thought when she receives her first kiss is that Porrim is roughly the same number of years older than her that Cronus was to Dirk.

“You been dreaming about me, kid?” Porrim murmurs against her lips.

Roxy's been dreaming about a lot of things, lately. “Don't call me kid.”

They get the most of out this time alone and then luckily fall back before Kankri and Dirk join them. Roxy considers taking a cigarette, just so she has something to occupy her mouth with, to cover the tingling she feels everyone must be able to see plainly on her lips. But things go as normal. Nobody asks uncomfortable questions.

Kankri ducks his head. “It's wrong,” he mutters. “There are people out there with my blood who are being hunted and murdered and enslaved, but I'm getting upset over...”

Porrim rubs his back, surprisingly gentle. “Fuck that noise – you're allowed to be sad over whatever you want. Just let yourself hate Karkat and accept the fact you're not the all-loving Signless type. Nobody can be forgiving of everybody. Not even old Signless himself, apparently.”

→

Dirk comes to her bed for the first time in their entire lives. “I'm sorry,” he says, face reddening, “I just really miss this.”

She stares at the dark figure standing before her for a moment, imagining the lines that separate boy from clothes. She can picture all the details even without seeing them. She doesn't particularly want to share a space with them – not with her dreams, not with the sickness bubbling just under the surfce of her skin the moment the lights turn out at night, but he needs her right now. And so she throws back the covers of her bed, consenting.

He crawls in with her and they lay, the rush of covers and awkward limbs trying not to upset one another followed by complete silence. He thankfully doesn't get close enough to touch her. She doesn't think she could stand that.

“How did you deal?” His voice penetrates the darkness, a plaintive light. “Knowing for so long?”

She can make out the cracks on the ceiling, now, her eyes have adjusted enough. If she doesn't pay attention, though, she starts to think the light fixtures look like monsters. Limbs like an octopus, spreading and flexing, reaching out the moment one turns away... “You're not dumb.”

He's quiet. Then, “I'm sorry.”

She shrugs. Sorry doesn't go back and make it all easier. Sorry doesn't go back and change it so she gets a proper healing arc, where she comes to terms with her problems and quit drinking of her own accord, because she doesn't need it anymore, as opposed to because there was none left. “We're going to get better. You. Me. Getting that crap with our parents out in the open means we can be straight with each other, even with the hardest stuff. Well.” She allows herself a smirk. “Not that you're capable of being straight. _Especially_ with stuff that happens to be _hard_. Eh?” He gives a huffy sigh at this and she laughs at her own wicked sense of humor.

“You ruined the moment,” he says.

“What can I say?” she replies. “It's a defense mechanism. I'm used to being defensive.” This new arrangement is going to take some getting used to.

→

Kanaya almost definitely knows about their parents, and probably knows that they now know about their parents, too. But she doesn't comment on it. She treats them the same as she's been treating them since they first got here, and for that, the siblings are thankful. Roxy reminds herself of how little incest means to trolls, and uses this fact once again to try to push down the feeling of mortification that looms over her heart.

The fabrics that have been strewn around the house since the day they arrived are a result of Kanaya's tailoring obsession. According to Porrim, all of their clothes – with the exception of Karkat's former knight uniform – are made by her and Kanaya. “I specialize in sweaters,” she says proudly, and Roxy feels as though this explains a lot, until Porrim elaborates that Kankri specifically _asks_ for his sweaters to be as huge and bulky as they are. “He uses them as a twenty-four hour security blanket,” she coos. “But just so you know, I can do more fitted clothing, too! I mean,” she pauses to glance at Kanaya, “I've learned from the _best._ ”

It takes several days of walking past and “subtly” glancing into the sewing room before Dirk finally gets up the courage to ask if he can join in. After getting Dirk to agree that participating in a traditionally feminine activity as a man doesn't make him special or better than anyone else, Porrim asks Roxy if she's the fighter of the family. “Since we've got a gender roles subversion thing going on here, just thought I should ask.”

“No, that's Dirk, too,” Roxy insists, but her brother shakes his head and points out how she's held her own against Karkat in sparring matches pretty well. Roxy won't budge; “Yeah, but that's _Karkat._ And I'm still not _the_ fighter, I mean, swords were always your thing.”

Kanaya feels bad for the lack of things to Roxy's interest at their home, and so she offers to try and adapt her white magic lessons to grimdark so that she can teach Roxy alongside Kankri and Porrim. (Porrim sourly admits, however, that she hasn't very much propensity for magic. At the most, she can make her skin glow softly, and do other basic light tricks that all those with white magic can do, but she can't even get a thimble to levitate.) Roxy declines Kanaya's offer, saying that maybe she'll just find another tutor. “Good luck,” Kanaya warns. “There aren't many people in Prospit who have mastered the Old Language, and even fewer who give lessons.” She sighs. “It's a shame you're the age you are; if you'd been younger, you could've tried cultivating some white magic, perhaps developed it before your body shut down those passageways...”

Roxy shakes her head. “I tried with Jade. I just don't have the 'spirit' necessary for it, or whatever.” She shrugs. “But I don't care. I'll find another way to keep on with my magic.” In reality, she's starting to lose interest in it altogether. She can still admire the magical feats of others, but she finds it difficult to motivate herself to continue with it when she feels she has shown so little progress over the years.

Kanaya says that, maybe when she returns to Derse, her mother or some other woman can help her regain the years she has lost. “Maybe,” Roxy replies, before quickly changing the subject. She's starting to think magic is one of the least important things she'll need to work to reclaim if she ever gets to go home.

→

When school returns, Roxy delves with more enthusiasm than ever into the sciences. If she can't perfect her magic to help people, then maybe she can become a physician like nonmagic people do instead! She still feels bad for all of the cats she has messed up – she wants to atone for her sins, by learning to do help living beings the harder, more precise way.

Meanwhile, Dirk, too, tries to get more motivated about school. His grades start to go back up, if gradually. After school, he devotes himself to swordsmanship and spars with Karkat and Kanaya both. Roxy joins in, if only for something to do, and finds both her hand-to-hand combat and bow-and-arrow skills rapidly improving.

Their new school is located several blocks from their old one, and so it is not too much of a hassle, some days, to just head to Jane's house for a sleepover. Considering the long carriage rides they have to endure to get to their school from Kanaya's home, sometimes it's better to feign politeness with John and spend time with their friend than it is to go back into the hillsides. It is in this way that Jane, Dirk, Jake, and Roxy remain united, despite their schools and homes having grown so far apart.

On many occasions, because Karkat loves to bother John, anyway, they all visit the Egbert home together. Kanaya is busy enough that she usually stays home, and Porrim, although she often wants to come, has business to attend to with her school's Women's Club that usually keeps her from joining them. Kankri just doesn't like John, or Jane, or anyone, really, and coops himself up in his room.

Even with the frequency with which she still visits the Egbert residence, Roxy can't help but feel the difference, the 180 degree turn from how things were before; she and Dirk are happier on the other side, coming and going with Karkat, than they ever were living here.

→

“You're going into the sciences?” Jade grins. “That's great!”

They're sitting in John's kitchen, at the counter. Dinner ended ten or so minutes ago, but the two women remained, chatting, while everyone else dispersed. Roxy can hear Karkat and John sitting outside, yelling, and Jane is in the other corner of the kitchen, reading a novel. Jake and Dirk are nowhere to be seen.

Roxy shrugs, blushing happily under Jade's praise. “Well, I mean, I'm still young and stuff, so I might change my mind later. But I'm pretty sure I'm going to do _something_ sciencey when I'm grown up.”

“You certainly have the ability,” Jade agrees with a nod. She takes a sip of her drink. “You'll just have to look out for some obstacles. You're a human, you're white, so you shouldn't have _too_ hard a time getting past the bigots, but men might try to encourage you to go for work as a midwife or some other lower-paid health professional instead of a physician, and you're going to have to be prepared to stand your ground.” She quirks her lips upward. “But you're young, still. You won't be have to fight too hard until you reach late high school, maybe even the college level.”

Roxy's eyes widens in surprise. The subject of sex discrimination came out of nowhere, and is never really something Jade's brought up with her before! Maybe the beer in her glass is making her lips a little loose.

Jade's expression droops somewhat, her smile sagging at the corners, her eyes going from determined and happy for Roxy to a a little sad-looking. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I'm so sorry I couldn't teach you any more magic.” She laughs, even though she clearly doesn't think it's funny. “I feel like I failed you and Rose both!”

“You did your best,” Roxy says with a forgiving grin and a shrug. It's been what, a year, more, since Jade stopped tutoring her? Roxy's pretty much gotten over that, even if it _was_ really depressing at the time... “Hey, if I ever need help in bio or chem, you can study with me! So we're all good.” She pats the older woman companionably on the shoulder.

Jade hurriedly agrees that she will help Roxy if she needs it. But she presses the issue. “I want to make it up to you in a bigger way, Rox.” Jade pauses to think, tapping her finger to her teeth as she does so. “Maybe – maybe you could go to the shooting range with me and Jake!” She snaps her fingers enthusiastically, her smile huge again. “You don't need natural anything but sight and a pair of hands to learn to shoot a gun!”

Roxy's eyes widen. Wow, that sounds really cool, actually? Derse doesn't manufacture guns, so she's only ever seen a very few in her lifetime. And according to rumors Karkat has shared with her, her Condesce recently banned them to Dersite civilians entirely... “Uh... sure. Do you think that's a great idea, though? I mean...” Roxy gestures with a smirk to the glass in Jade's hand. “Will you remember making this deal with me tomorrow?”

The older woman lets out a hoot of laughter. “I'm not _that_ drunk!” She grins. “No, please, let me show you the ropes! Shooting's a hell of a lot of fun, especially when you're hitting cans and things. Me and my boy hunt, but I understand, with your love for animals, you may not want to.”

“Uh. Probably not,” Roxy admits. Wow – how cool! She really hopes Jade doesn't go back on this offer, because it sounds really interesting! As far as she knows, Dirk has never touched a gun. This might actually be Roxy's chance to excel in something without worrying her brother will be better at it...

She chatters excitedly with Jade about guns and a wide assortment of other things for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually, Jake and Dirk come back into the kitchen, walking close together, looking guilty of something. Roxy doesn't bother wondering what they broke, or who they eavesdropped on, or whatever they did – she's too engaged with dreams of the future to bother much.

→

The dreams don't stop. She's splashing her face with cold water at two in the morning when Porrim appears, like a ghost, in the doorway of the washroom. “This is the third time in a week I've heard you in here this early, Blondie. Something eating at you?”

Yes. Yes, there is.

Porrim smooths her hand over Roxy's back, trying to comfort her, not kiss her. “That's normal for trolls, you know.”

Yes. Yes, she knows.

“Hey – they're dreams. Dreams don't mean jack unless you're a seer.” She smooths her hand down Roxy's back, no longer just trying to comfort. “Hey – I'll give you something to think about instead.”

Roxy doesn't have the heart to tell her it won't do any good. That's she's been trying to block these thoughts out with ones of Porrim, of Jake. That it won't stop these dreams, or these imaginary climaxes, or these terrified awakenings in the middle of the night.

“Yes. Yes, that's it. Not too eager, now, you'll wake somebody up...”

→

Dirk comes along for her shooting lessons. To Roxy's relief, though, he doesn't pick up a gun. He hangs behind and praises their every shot, clapping particularly hard when Jake hits the bullseye. When they are done practicing, Jake is always flushed and grinning, taken away, Roxy thinks, by the thrill of the sport.

With time, Roxy becomes a professional in her own right. She manages to beat Jake in accuracy at a distance even though he's been shooting for years more than her. And this, to finally excel at something, thrills her like nothing else.

Dirk claims his moving closer to watch them helped her win. Roxy isn't sure exactly what that means, or why it makes her suddenly find Jake more annoying than she did before.

→

They have been living with the Vantas-Maryams for over a year, they have settled into their new school, their new home, their friends, and their life in Prospit when a letter finally arrives. It's crumpled in one corner from where somebody gripped it too tight, and has stamps indicating it was forwarded from John's address. The return address is the post office in Derse's capital city.

Rose and Dave are alive. And they want their children to come back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand that concludes act 2!
> 
> I am so, soooo sorry that these last two chapters just flew by! If I had more time and I hadn't wasted several chapters on the story arc taking place at John's home I would've tried harder to pace the Karkat chapters and characterize everyone/cover their conflicts better, but I really needed to get this story moving into the main plot lines. Trust me, the timeskip will make for interesting developments


	16. Act 3: Return to Derse, Part 1: Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a good holiday! 
> 
> 19 chapters of this fic are prewritten, meaning I've got ten more to write over winter break. So far I've written chapter 20 and part of 21. Ugh! My college's winter break is super long, but I've already wasted a week watching TV and - gasp! - spending time with my family, so I'm behind in my writing schedule.

Act Three: Return to Derse

Part One: Reunion

* * *

 

“I'll write to you,” Dirk says against his lips. “Every day.”

Roxy and Karkat roll their eyes in time as Dirk and Jake frantically kiss goodbye. The boys have been infuriatingly inseparable since the Striders received word from their parents, to the point where Jake has actually been sleeping over Kanaya's house for days. “It'll be nice to see him gone,” she said that morning, before her eyes started to fill with green tears. “But I imagine I will miss you two quite a lot more.”

And so here they are. The whole makeshift, Vantas-Maryam family, and the Egberts, and the Englishes, come to say good-bye to the Striders. It has been three years since Roxy and her brother came to Prospit. Now, they can finally return home.

With a sigh, Jade tugs her son by the shoulder, trying to get him to stop eating his boyfriend's face for a moment so everyone else can give Dirk a proper goodbye. The boys separate, if reluctantly, and one by one, the Striders say goodbye to each person there to see them off. They've got quite a crowd in this train station, and people who pass by alternatively glare at them for blocking their path or smile sympathetically.

John claps a hand on Roxy's shoulder. “Feels like I picked you up here just yesterday!” His smile quickly collapses, and Roxy hopes he's not going to cry. She really doesn't want to have to deal with a grown man crying on her. “Uh... I'm sorry, for everything that's happened, Roxy. You're a good kid. Your brother's a good kid. I just wasn't good enough to be your guardian.”

Roxy rolls her eyes at his one last attempt at apology before yanking him into a hug. “Whatever, Mr. Egbert.” She pulls away, smirking. “I won't rat you out to my parents, if that's what you're so worried about.”

He sputters at her, and she walks off to embrace more friends, more adults she's going to miss. Porrim gives her well wishes and a platonic lick on the cheek, Kankri consents to a handshake, and Kanaya kisses her on the forehead and pulls away, quickly, to fan her face and clear her throat. Jade gives Roxy a nearly lung-crushing bear hug. “I'll miss you, Rox, but I'm so happy for you!” She squeezes and then lets go, prompting Roxy into a wild fit of giggles in reply. She throws her arms around the older woman's neck before she can pull away entirely, and smells her black hair, her skin, like nature and her dog, Bec, and, god, Jade, she's going to miss Jade so much. She's going to miss _all_ these people so much, even Kankri! Jade gently wipes Roxy's eye, smiles at her. “Don't cry for us. This is a wonderful day. By tomorrow, you'll be home.”

She tries to obey Jade, to smile. “But I feel like I'm leaving home behind all over again.”

She moves on to hug Jane, who squeezes her almost as tight as Jade. “Please, please write to me! I want to know that you're happy and safe and...” She smiles. “Maybe you can come back to visit sometime!”

Some adults nearby hum agreements. Roxy doesn't even mention the inverse happening, instead returning her friend's embrace. “Of course I'll write, of course I'll come to see you!” Jane's teary eyes are contagious; Roxy can feel herself getting weepy all over again just looking at her. She yanks Jane into another hug just to hide her face. “Dammit, Janey, I'm going to miss you so much!” She squeezes her eyes shut for just a second to ward off the tears. “Take care of Jasper for me!”

After she pulls away from Roxy, Jane and Dirk look at one another awkwardly for a few moments, hesitating, before she throws her arms out. “Oh, f-fudge it!” she cries, and she pulls him into an affectionate hug. He returns the embrace, squeezing his eyes shut, murmuring sorries and I'll miss yous that she only replies to with don't be sillies and oh, god, of course, of course I'll miss you, toos.

Jake looks at Roxy, hopeful. She gives a frustrated sigh, gathering up inside her all the times he's irritated her before she breathes it all out, one big cloud of negative feelings, dissipating into the air. She feels lighter having done so, and smiles at him, and beckons him forward. “C'mon, hug me.”

He happily takes her up on her offer, patting her back in a boyish way. “I'm going to really miss you, Roxy.”

She snorts, her nose against his shoulder. “You mean you're gonna miss my brother?”

He shakes his head rapidly. “Yeah, I'll miss Dirk, but I'll miss you, too! We're friends, Roxy.” He smiles nervously at her, testing the waters, hoping she won't reject him, and...

She smiles back. “Yeah. Yeah, we're cool.”

A grateful grin spreads across his face. It almost feels like they did before he started dating her brother. She lets go of her jealousy, if only for a moment, if only to let herself miss somebody who's been her friend since she got here three years ago. She'd be a whole lot lonelier if not for him and Jane. She'd be a whole lot lonelier if not for most of these people.

Kanaya gives Karkat one last affectionate pat on the cheek, wishing him a safe journey before he finally pulls away from the group, telling everyone to settle down and stop sniveling. He guides the Striders to the train. It's funny that they have an adult escorting them back to a familiar place, now that they're so much older, whereas all those years ago they were forced to journey to a completely alien place alone. But things were more frantic then – they can afford a luxury like a chaperone now.

Roxy and Dirk wave to their second family the whole walk up to the ticket-puncher, and out of the windows as they walk down the train to their designated car. Karkat does a lot of eye-rolling and muttering for them to hurry up, but he doesn't shout at them, knowing how important it is to them that they get to see everyone like this.

When the train has gotten far enough from the station that they can't see it anymore, Dirk and Roxy's faces fall into matched solemnity. Roxy is happy to finally be going home. But she can't help but think that this is going to be the first time she'll have to look her parents in the eye after finding out the truth. Karkat told her he wrote them, saying their children had found out, but he never got a reply, and there was no mention of it in the letter they sent asking their children come back to Derse. Regardless, Roxy wonders who will bring it up first. If anyone will bring it up at all.

She's glad her parents have finally reemerged. But at the same time, she hates them for ruining this peace she has finally found with herself, hates them for unearthing this terrible bullshit all over again.

Karkat grumbles that the train ride is going to take forever, and Roxy hums a vague affirmative. He asks Dirk if he really intends to continue his relationship with Jake long-distance, and Dirk sighs, saying to the window that he wishes everyone would stop doubting them. With this, the group sinks into silence.

It's a wholly different atmosphere from the one at the train station.

→

The train ride is an overnight ordeal. Roxy awakes to find Karkat scowls even in his sleep, whereas her brother takes on a look of profound sadness. She wonders what her own face looks like when she's asleep. She'd like to think she smiles, looks pleasant, in some way.

When she first steps off the train, the different taste of the air gets caught in her throat, and a coughing fit ensues. She feels like the air is thinner, somehow, smoggier. She steps down from the train, looking at the crowd for familiar faces as her brother and Karkat lead her to the luggage car. Karkat has a small carry-on with him, intending to find a place to get cleaned up and then get back on the train for Prospit later that night. It's a pain in the ass, he says, but there's no way in hell he's staying in Derse for more than a few hours, just as there's no way in hell he's letting these too navigate this place alone. “You think you're in your element, but I don't trust this batshit crazy place not to kill you both the minute your guards are down!”

Dirk snorts, ever the haughty swordsman. Just the thought that Karkat may need to protect them probably insults him. Still, he and Roxy grab their luggage without a word in rebuttal, grateful for Karkat's company in and of itself.

They walk a little ways into the throng of people, nervously looking around. “They said they'd meet us, right?”

Karkat grits his teeth and whips his head around, looking for a clock. There are four big, green ones, mounted on each side of a tower in the center of the station, but their faces have been smashed in. “Glad I came with you,” he grumbles. He looks around the station some more, rapidly growing impatient. “Where _are_ they?”

And then, as if summoned, they appear, coming out of the entrance doors, no hoods concealing their faces. Roxy feels her brother stiffen beside her as their parents spot them and make eye contact.

There is a single beat, and then the siblings drop their luggage where they stand, running to meet the adults already rushing towards them, and they all collide in a group embrace.

“Shit,” Dave says. “Shit, shit, shit, look at how you two've _grown_. I sound like an old man, I know, but...” He grabs Dirk by the shoulders and pushes him back, staring at him face-to-face, worrying his lower lip and flexing his fingers on his shoulders... “...God. God, you're a _man._ ”

Roxy, meanwhile, revels in the feeling of her mother's lips kissing all over her face. Rose is wearing a perfume so familiar, it's the sort of scent that catapults you into the past, making you feel as though you're in the exact same spot you were the last time you smelled it... which, incidentally, Roxy is. Oh, her mom is here! Rose stops kissing her long enough that they can look at each other and... There are creases, at the corners of her eyes. And she's looking more than three years older. And her skin, something about her skin...

Rose cups Roxy's face in her hands. “My goodness,” she murmurs, giving a wry smile. “You're taller than me.”

“And you're so short,” Roxy feebly teases back. But it's so strange. Dave hugs her, and he seems not quite as broad-shouldered as she remembers him being. And, wow, it's weird, to see him in anything other than his knight's uniform. Roxy runs her fingers over the material, guessing that Dave and Karkat don't have the same policies on the rights to a uniform.

Her parents' mouths twist in bittersweet smiles, and the small lines on their faces make them seem less calm and poised than before. They're simply bursting with emotion, so terribly happy to see their children and devastated to witness how much of their lives they have lost. They're both wearing plain clothes, Dave in a tunic and regular pants, Rose in a long dress. They don't look like nobility, and they definitely don't look like rebel leaders.

Dave slaps Karkat's back so hard Roxy can _hear_ how much it must hurt. “It's good to see you, too, Karkat. I see that unlike my kids, you haven't grown at all the last few years. What, no post-school growth-spurts?”

“Fuck you, Dave,” Karkat replies.

Rose's expression falls into one of worry. “Karkat, while I'm incredibly grateful for how you've looked after our children, you didn't have to come and deliver them yourself! It's dangerous, you know, there's a purge going on in Derse.” Roxy notices that, even while she addresses someone else, she's keeping her hand on Roxy's shoulder, as if to anchor her.

Karkat winces. “I hate to break it to you, Rose, but there are purges happening in Prospit, too. We just tend to hide it better.”

“How long you staying?” Dave asks. His frown reverberates through his whole face, now, creasing his brow. “Would you be willing to tell us all about it, over dinner, maybe?”

When they step outside the train station, Roxy gets caught in another coughing fit, and Dirk purses his lips hard and breathes heavily through his nose. When she's finished, she blinks away her tears, again, again, oh, god, she forgot how dark it was in Derse compared to Prospit. She squints, and is grateful when she sees the streets are lined with streetlamps. It feels darker than she remembers it, and it hits her she will not just have to emotionally, but _physically_ adjust her entire body before she feels at home in Derse again. Great.

Rose and Dave grow quiet. Karkat bunches his hood up so that it covers his neck more, a protective gesture. Roxy and Dirk fall silent, too, if only on queue.

The city, much like her parents, is familiar, and yet massively, disconcertingly changed. Some buildings have been expanded to have severe, pointed towers, and others have been burned to the ground, and are swarmed by people who look to be laborers, putting them back together in a style more befitting of the new regime. The city is still a bustling, crowded place, but something about the population is eerily different. It takes Roxy a minute to realize, but... there aren't many trolls. At _all_. The ones she sees are decked in blue or purple. She wonders what the port district looks like, if there are still many sea-dwellers.

A few passersby look curiously at Karkat. One human child standing beside them on the sidewalk, waiting for traffic to clear, outright _stares_ at him, her father too occupied doing the same to scold her. Roxy feels as if these people can see his blood through his skin, and steps a little closer to him. He glances briefly at her, but doesn't comment.

Her parents do not lead them to the castle. In fact, they stray farther and farther away from it, heading instead into the poor, residential districts of the city. And, ah, here they are – more trolls decked in greens and graduating warming colors, but lots of humans, and carapaces, too. Pawns, Roxy thinks, from their often short, squat stature. None look so sleek as the queen used to, but then, she was “purebred” royalty. Roxy thinks of the way carapaces divide caste lines along body shape and thinks it's a ridiculous reason to discriminate, but then, humans have a knack for judging skin, and trolls have their aversion to blood color, so to each unreasonable prejudice their own.

They end up going around the back of a small apartment complex, one which has an apartment on top and one on the bottom. The entrance to the top can be accessed by some stairs in the back yard, and Roxy guesses that this is where her parents – and now, she and Dirk – live now. Her father holds the door open for them all, and when Roxy steps inside, she can't help but notice what a downgrade it is from their tower apartment in the castle. It's an improvement on the hotels, at least – there's a small kitchenette, which opens into a small room with a table. There's a bathroom, and, down the hall, two bedrooms... which surprises Roxy. Have her parents really been preparing for her and her brother's return long enough to leave a room free for them? “How long have you lived here?”

“Just over three months,” Rose replies. Dave ushers Karkat back towards the bathroom with the intent of showing him where the towels are kept, and how to work the nearly-broken handles. Rose takes her kids back towards the small table, offering them something to eat. “After being on that train for so long, you must be starved – no no, don't help me. Sit and tell me all about your time in Prospit.”

“We will,” Dirk promises. “But right now, I think we'd both like to know what you were up to this whole time, and why you can only see us again _now._ ”

They watch Rose as she sets up a tea kettle, her facial expression careful not to let slip a single answer to their question. “Maybe when Karkat's freshened up. As you can imagine, our reasons for being separate from you have been highly political...” She frowns, then turns down the stove's heat a little. She turns her face to smile serenely at them. “Have the papers in Prospit said a single word?”

Roxy and her brother shake their heads. Rose sighs. “We'll have to start from the very beginning, I suppose.”

Their dad comes back into the kitchen then. He changes the subject, despite the fact that he could no doubt hear them in this in this tiny living space. Still, Roxy happily lets herself get swept up in nonpolitical talk, choosing instead to tell her parents all about Jane.

“So her parents died in the war for Lolar,” Dave says after a while. He frowns. “Wow. I mean, I've known for a while John's big bro has been dead, but it's still weird to think about, even now. He was the most domestic guy I ever met – used to bake shit for us all the time. I loved going over there. John hated sweets, so James was just completely wasted on a little brother like that.”

“Jane, too!” Roxy says, excitedly. “She loves to bake! That was the best part of staying in John's house...”

Dave frowns. “Karkat tells me you two moved out of John's place and in with him, though? When did that happen?”

Roxy and Dirk meet each other's gazes, as if mentally trading dates and contexts. “...Over a year after we got there?” Dirk guesses. “Definitely not two years.”

Roxy nods. “Yeah. John said he didn't expect to have us for that long...” Her dad is turning away from her, so he can look over his shoulder at Rose. “You told him we had no idea when it'd be safe to get the kids back, right?”

Rose sighs. “Oh, I'm _sure_ I did, but you know how those people are. They are awarded the littlest bit of peace, of privilege, and suddenly, they cannot even fathom how much worse other people have it.” She pauses, touching her lips. “...We were like that. We haven't had an opportunity to be like that in ages, though.”

“There are still days I wake up and groan because we aren't in the castle,” Dave sighs, stretching. “Damn. That was the _life._ That's what we came to Derse for, wasn't it?”

“Sometimes.” The kettle begins to scream. “But I can't say the condition of Derse now comes as much of a surprise. It was a long time coming...”

Roxy blurts that Dirk has a boyfriend, and the family talks about Jake until Karkat finally emerges from the bathroom, rubbing his soaking hair with a towel. Dirk has turned a deep shade of red by that time, and demands his parents talk about what's been going on in Derse now that everyone is present. Likely to his relief, they agree to do just this.

“After we sent you away,” Rose says, coming to stand over where her husband sits, “Her Imperious Condescension began to reform the laws in Derse. For instance, the old culling statutes of the Alternian Empire have been instated; those trolls unable to reproduce, as well as all genetic anomalies and dissident lowbloods, can be gathered and sentenced to death any time. It is illegal for anyone with blood below Nepeta's caste to hold any sort of office, and the worship of the Signless is expressly forbidden.” She pauses. “Humans and carapaces of just about any stock are expected to attend schools separate from highbloods. No human or carapace can hold public office, although they can be employed in the knighthood who police our streets, and they can serve as drones for her Condesce and work in the castle. All those entering the castle are strip-searched. A dissident human is more likely to get off easily on a charge than a carapace, since it is assumed most carapaces are still loyal to our late Black Queen.”

“Racist,” Dave gasps, only half-joking. “Still don't get that logic. She was real good to humans and everyone else, too.”

Karkat raises an eyebrow. “And it is safe for your kids to be back here, _how?_ ”

“Everyone still lives in fear,” Rose admits. “The knights attack civilians at the slightest provocation, and there are rebel terrorists to look out for, but for the most part, things have calmed down. People know how to live quietly and inoffensively, and they know when to evacuate the streets.”

“It's quiet,” Dave says with a shrug. “Plus, fuck – we're selfish. We wanted to see our kids. Three years is just too damn long to be apart.”

Roxy grabs her dad's hands impulsively. “And we're glad to be home!”

Dirk nods firmly. “We've lived through a lot. We can handle this.”

Karkat gives a haggard, angry sigh, but he doesn't try to argue. “And what about these 'rebel terrorists?' Can you trust them to liberate Derse, or are they just taking advantage of a chaotic situation?”

“There are those who take advantage of the chaos to loot, of course, but most of the rebels are coming from a real place of indignation.” Rose sighs. “The new queen is a tyrant – she hates everyone but those highest on the hemospectrum and those upperclass Others willing to bow to her every whim. The Black Queen's followers, loyalist carapaces, are wreaking havoc against our new beloved dictator in the hopes of 'cleansing' the monarchy. The poorly named 'Humanists' – honestly, I don't think any of them have ever picked up a book on real humanism – are also hoping to overthrow her, as are the lowblood radicals, who, as always, are the most successful of the rebels. Obviously no one has succeeded in actually taking her Condesce out of power, but many of her followers have been eliminated.”

“All three factions work apart from each other,” Dave says with a sigh. “We've been trying for ages to unite them...”

“We?” Dirk pipes up. Rose shoots an irritable look at Dave, who wilts. Dirk scowls. “So you really have been embroiled in the resistance.”

Rose clears her throat. “We're not going to lie to you – I imagine you wouldn't believe us if we were to claim we've just been living our lives comfortably up until now, anyway. So the answer is yes; your father and I have been participating in the revolution. Sometimes by resorting to violence, but many times by doing other things. But there you have it.”

No one says anything to that right away. Roxy feels unsurprised by this admission, and she can tell her brother is, too; her parents have always fallen in with political dissident. Speaking of which... Karkat is looking very solemn right now. Shouldn't he be proud of her parents? He was always down on John for never standing up against Kurloz, and he always tells Kankri to act more...

“And what faction do you belong to?” Karkat asks, expression unreadable.

“An unnamed fourth,” Rose answers, “whose goal is to unite all three others so that we can work together to overthrow her Condesce and reforming the government.”

“One of our biggest problems is that the loyalists want to continue on with a monarchy. They have hope that the Black Queen's still alive, and they control their followers with vacant promises of her return,” Dave says. “The rest of us, well. We want to set up a democracy in Derse, you know, a parliament with representatives from every group.” He scratches his neck. “...Of course, she and all her batshit followers need to actually be dead before we can get our hopes up about that.”

Rose brings the kettle to the table with a box of tea bags, and everyone begins serving themselves. Karkat frowns, not touching a thing. “Is it okay for us to be talking about this?”

“Why? You afraid we'll be overheard?” Dave smirks. “Who do you think we got this place from?”

Karkat scoffs. “Being careful won't kill you. Just the opposite, in fact.”

Dave gets up to prepare a meal for the group. They drop the subject of Derse's political turmoil and the Striders' role in it. Dirk grumbles about being left out, and Rose assures him there will be time to discuss these things later. Right now, she wants to know about the train ride over, about Prospit, and, above all, about the boy he's been seeing. “It'd be lovely, to be Jade's sister-in-law. I miss her so much.” This prompts Roxy to talk over Dirk, to tell her Mom about learning to shoot.

“You've been shooting guns?” Rose blinks. “Why would you need to learn to shoot when you have magic? The technology of a musket is far inferior to the sheer power of a wand... You know guns are illegal for civilians here?”

Roxy smiles sheepishly. There is no way she's telling her mother she dropped magic _quite_ yet... “It's _fun_ , Mom, and I'm really good at it!”

“But it's pointless to know...” Dave waves away Rose's criticisms before she can finish. “That's awesome, Roxy. Maybe if we get in good with the lowblood radicals, we can horn in on their illegal gun action, get you something nice to fuck around in the woods with.”

He gives his daughter a thumbs-up, which she returns. She can't help but notice her mom's frown persist.

The meal is a scrappy type of soup made from leftovers, but it tastes delicious because their father made it. Even with his big personality, Karkat seems to fade into the background as Roxy becomes engrossed with her long absent parents. They're in a different home, and it's years later, but just being amongst people she loves is so comforting.

Not that it isn't a little weird, too, to see them together. Roxy studies her parents' faces, looking for similarities. The ocular albinism, yes. The cheekbones. The hair. Something about the way they purse their lips when they're amused. Her mom pecks her dad on the corner of his mouth, demure and spontaneous, and he kisses her sloppily on the lips in response. Roxy looks down at her hands, suddenly uncomfortable seeing her parents do something that used to be so ordinary.

And then it is time for Karkat to catch his train. They all accompany him to the station, and amidst his loud curses and complaints of the length of the ride, he refuses offers to stay the night. “I already paid for this lousy ticket, and I'm going to get a shitty night's sleep anyway.” He pauses before he steps on the train, and then throws his arms around Dirk and Roxy. She feels her heart plummet into her chest – oh, right. She's not going to see Karkat again for a very long time, is she? She leans down and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to remember this, just like she did with Jade and her mom.

When they finally pull apart, he sets his jaw firmly, like people do when they're trying very hard not to let vulnerability leak into their expression. “Don't get your asses killed. But don't back down from oppressive bullshit, either.”

They watch the last vestiges of their life these last three years board the train and then slip away, back to Prospit without them.


	17. Act 3, Part 2: Thrum of the Oncoming Storm

Act Three: Return to Derse

Part Two: Thrum of the Oncoming Storm

* * *

 

This place is gray, like a prison cell, with thick bricks of concrete composing the walls. They are too far underground for there to be windows, a feat made possible by how far south into the city they are, miles away from the port districts and safe from high sea levels.

Roxy can't help but think what a change this place is from the royal grounds, where Dave used to teach Dirk to handle a sword. At least the thick throng of muscled guards at the entrance of this place was similar to that of the castle, although the guards' presence fills Roxy with dread. There's no question this place is a part of whatever “organization” her parents have devoted the last three years of their lives to, and the fact it seems to need protecting has Roxy on edge.

The Striders are in a private room, a very wide space perfect for sparring. Dirk and Dave stand opposite each other, ready to strike. Rose raises her hand, then brings it down. The two men launch themselves at each other, one fast, the other faster.

Dirk's sword swipes at his father so viciously that Dave has no choice but to preoccupy himself blocking each blow. They move around the room, one with frantic movements, one embodying a graceful intensity. Both strive to keep their faces straight, but the skin-crawling smash of practice blades by Dave's face causes him to visibly wince, gritting his teeth as he defends against the onslaught by his son.

Within five, extremely heated minutes of the match's start, Dave's sword is flung out of his hand and cast aside. Dirk rests the tip of his blade on his father's chest and smirks.

Dave opens and closes his mouth several times before his brain catches up. “...Wow. Karkat really buckled down on you, didn't he?”

“I made a name for myself in quite a few tournaments.” Dirk lowers his practice blade to his side. “I'm itching to get into a real battle, though. I want to know if I could hold my own with a real sword as opposed to one of these... flimsy things.”

Dave laughs. It sounds awkward, insincere. “A real battle? Like, to the death?” His smile is more of a cringe. “Where the hell do you think you'd get that kind of experience?”

Roxy, meanwhile, leans over to whisper to her mother. “Hey – is it safe for us to be in this place? It seems really sketchy...”

Rose gives a small laugh in reply. “Do you think your father and I would take you someplace dangerous?”

Roxy hesitates. “The guards...”

“This facility belongs to the organization, yes. But there are no illegal operations going on here. If you'd like, you could think of this place as one of the benefits of joining the resistance, since it's not as though there are many training areas open to the lower classes in this city.”

In addition to the gun ban and closing down of shooting ranges, it's getting more and more difficult for those not aligned with the upper classes to get trained in the weapons still legal for civilians to own. And, of course, there's the ever-present issue of magic not being taught in public schools, meaning people have to pay out of their pockets to learn. Those who are poor simply do not learn any magic if they do not have a neighbor or family member to teach them for free.

Which reminds Roxy that she still hasn't talked to her mother about dropping magic for natural sciences. She decides she'll just lay the foundation subtly... “Uh, where are Dirk and me going to go to school?”

“You're going to be home-schooled again,” Rose answers. “The public schools in this city are atrociously imperialist and the private academies are just as bad, but more expensive.”

“Oh. Okay.” Roxy fidgets. “...I can still get into university that way, right?”

“Oh, I imagine.” Rose's attention starts to drift as Dave and Dirk start up fighting again. This time, the fight ends when Dave lands on his ass, and he bursts into a fit of laughter as his son brandishes his sword at him. “Holy _shit –_ we need a kid like you out on the field!”

Rose cups her hands around her mouth. “No,” she shouts to them, “ _we don't_.” Dirk shoots his mother a sour look in reply.

Rose sighs as she watches her son yank his father to his feet.. “I see your brother is still quite interested in politics.”

“Yeah, well, he learned it from somewhere,” Roxy grumbles. “Hey, Mom, about school? You see, I ask because I'm _really_ interested in a particular subject, and I want to be prepared...”

“Dirk, please don't break your father, I'd like to keep him in good condition for a while longer!” Rose shouts as her son, again, engages her husband in a vicious one-on-one. Dave is smiling almost manically now as they fight. Dirk, on the other hand, is stoic for all of his physical exertion, expression hard as he aims strike after strike. Roxy watches them with little interest, used to seeing Dirk fight like this. He's been a champion in Prospit for around a year now, having beat everyone in his grade in Prospit's capital city into submission. Granted, her father is an adult, but Dirk has a habit of annihilating his tutors with just as much skill and ferocity as opponents his own age.

“I just want to be sure I'll be able to get into a good natural sciences school when the time comes. I mean, these next four years are really, really important in deciding what university I get into-”

“Science?” Rose finally turns her face away from the battle to look at her daughter. “You're interested in the sciences now?”

Roxy raises her shoulders and hands slowly into a tentative shrug. “I... yes? Is that the wrong thing to say?” Is that not what you want to hear?

Rose blinks at her. “...No. No, of course not, you can pursue whatever you want. It's just strange; I always thought you would pursue a concentration in some sort of magic, which, honestly, with enough raw ability, you can make a career for yourself in without advanced schooling.”

“Well. I mean. You haven't really seen me since I was _eleven,_ so. My interests are kind of bound to change...” She trails off, seeing the way her mom bites her lip and looks away.

Rose watches her son defeat her husband for the fourth time in a row. “Have you continued your studies in magic?”

Roxy shifts uncomfortably. “...There aren't a whole lot of people in Prospit qualified to hone a girl's grimdark skills, Mom. They think it's too dangerous, you know, too corruptible, even if it is powerful. White magic's so much easier to lay the foundation for, the Old Language and the equations really complicate things...”

“But that's so unfair, that's not the same as giving up because you want to-”

Roxy shakes her head. “I'm okay with it, really. Magic was never really my thing, and. I'm actually _good_ at science. Like, everything Jade has ever showed me has made tons of sense!” She's getting excited, just thinking about it all again. “Biology's my favorite, especially when it comes to animals, but I even like physics, even though the formulas are hard to keep track of sometimes!”

Rose looks so bewildered that Roxy recoils somewhat, her excitement dissipating. “...Are you disappointed in me?”

Rose shakes her head rapidly. “No, not at all. You're a smart girl, Roxy.” She smiles, if sadly. “I suppose it'd be nice, if you got to go to university. I think I would've liked to have gone, but I lost my chance when I became pregnant.”

Roxy feels a shiver run down her spine. She looks to see Dave finally jab the thin tip of his practice sword at Dirk's chest, his first victory since they arrived. She pictures her parents fleeing into the night, two-year-old Dirk clutched to their chest, Rose's belly just barely beginning to swell with the hints of Roxy's own life.

Rose won't let her attend public school when the politics interfere with their own – Roxy can hardly imagine being left to walk the halls of school pregnant. Because Rose was only 15, a year older than Roxy is now, when she first got pregnant to her brother. And she worked her hardest, and prepared for university, anyway, but she still had to sacrifice everything for this life in Derse instead.

Roxy's mother sacrificed a comfortable life in Prospit for her brother, for her kids. But Roxy doesn't want to sacrifice everything she has for this war her family has become so obsessed with. She can feel her brother becoming embroiled, and soon enough, he, too, will join her parents on the battlefield, no matter how Rose protests. But Roxy won't. She'll go to the poorest, dirtiest public school, she'll pay for university with her own sweat and tears if she has to.

She definitely doesn't want to risk her life for this war she blames for separating her from her family in the first place. Not even if it means following those very same family members to companionship in death; she'd rather risk eventual life without them than eventual death with them.

This is what Roxy tells herself at age fourteen, before her brother accompanies their parents to his first revolutionary meeting.

→

There is a lot of shrill shrieking, from Nepeta and Roxy both, when they are finally reunited.

“Roxy!! Sweet, sweet Roxy!” Each word is punctuated with a kiss to her cheek; Nepeta has to lean up on her feet to reach. Nepeta has always been petite, but the height difference hits Roxy almost harder than the one between her and her mother. Nepeta asks Dirk if he's too much of a man to want to hug his old nanny, and he responds by pulling her into an embrace.

Roxy asks Nepeta if she still lives out in the countryside, and the little troll woman titters in reply. “Not for years! Equius got us a high-rise in the port district with a _beautiful_ view of the sea! He's a government officer, so I don't have to nanny anymore, which is good because the sea-dwellers next door to us are awfully rude! I only worked for them for a week, and they always wiped down all the counters I touched after I left! You'd think they'd go back to the ocean or just not hire me at all if they don't want a land-dweller looking after their wards – who, by the way, were not nice kids at all!”

Nepeta goes out of her way to compliment the tiny Strider apartment despite having seen it before, calling it “cozy” and “cute.” She grills Roxy and Dirk on all that has happened since they left for Prospit years ago, and swoons when they mention living with Karkat. “How _lucky!_ I met him a million years ago, when I went to Prospit for a semester in college. It's how I met your parents! He's so crabby on the surface, but he _really was_ such a genuinely good guy, deep, deep down!”

“Oh, definitely,” Dirk agrees, Roxy nodding rapidly by his side. “We enjoyed living with him way more than we did with John.”

“What's Karkat up to?” Nepeta rests her face on her hands, elbows on the table. “Does he have... any quadrants filled?”

“Just pale,” Dirk said. “With Kanaya, a jade troll.”

“Kanaya?” Rose raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

Dave laughs. “You look surprised! I saw that shit coming a mile away. Like it's all that big of a surprise that one-sided mess he had going on with Makara didn't last.” He pauses, though, thinking. “...Didn't expect him not to last with Terezi, though. Those two danced around each other forever. Oh, well. That's what happens when girls like her get involved with guys like Gamzee.”

“He's got a kid, too,” Roxy pipes up. “A ward.”

Nepeta's eyebrows shoot up. “Somebody with the same blood color as him, really?” She pauses. “I mean, I guess it makes sense. He's got connections with the mothergrub, so he can protect any mutant who comes out of there before the government comes.”

“The purges aren't nearly as bad in Prospit as they are here,” Dirk scoffs. He pauses to take a quick sip of his drink. Roxy takes this opportunity to change the subject back to Karkat's tragic love life, taking the time to detail his disastrous romantic pursuit of Jade the summer before.

Roxy's parents artfully avoid the topic of Dersite politics for the entire visit. But once Nepeta has left, they confess that Equius has been turning a blind eye to a lot of what's been happening with their organization. “It's not that he's in the know, exactly,” Rose says, “but it's not as if he's entirely oblivious to what's going on. He just feels bad enough for all he's done that he thinks he owes it to people to let them do as they please in revolt against the Condesce, but he doesn't feel bad enough to stop benefitting from her reign.”

“It's so great to see everybody again,” Roxy sighs. “Who's next? Feferi? The Mayor?”

Her parents trade looks. “...The Mayor,” Rose says, after a pause.

“What's he been up to?” Dirk asks.

“Much the same as us. He's trying to encourage the loyalists to join in on the revolution for democracy with the humanists. He's making the most progress of any of us, I'd say – he knows what to say to his own people to make them see reason.”

“He's hella' experienced in protesting,” Dave says, sipping his coffee. “Without him, I don't think we'd have ever got the organization off the ground.”

Roxy definitely doesn't want to risk her life, but they've talked a lot today about Karkat... “Are there other ways to help Derse? Less violent ways, like, that _won't_ get me murdered?” Then, after a beat, “Or arrested?”

Dirk snorts. Roxy punches him in the arm. “I mean it! I care about Derse, but I don't want to blow up buildings or whatever the heck you guys do!”

Rose's finds her daughter's question more amusing than a reasonable person probably should. “Roxy, your father and I are nonviolent cogs in a larger machine.”

“A _violent_ machine. Whatever you do, you probably contribute to something bigger and worse...er.”

To her annoyance, Rose chuckles. “Yes, I suppose we can find something simple for you to do.” She smiles. “We'll ask the Mayor when we visit, to see if there's a way you two can contribute but remain safe. I certainly don't want my children on the battlefield anymore than they want to-”

“I want to do what you guys do,” Dirk insists. “Hell, I want to be on the front lines if possible.”

She sighs. “Dirk...”

“I mean it!”

Roxy watches her mother drop the subject. In a house so unafraid of argument and debate, Rose's silence is not at all a refusal to comply with Dirk's wishes. If anything, it is a delay for the inevitable break down.

→

“Are you ready for the party?!” The troll woman standing in their doorway is wearing a grin that can only be described as maniacal. Her horns curl towards her face like a ram's, and her lips are donned in a bright, bold maroon. Between the double-thumbs-up she's giving and her wild head of hair, she looks to Roxy like the sorts of demons belonging to very old, very archaic human mythology. (As opposed to the very real, very tentacled kind.)

From where he's scrubbing his dish in the sink, Dirk looks at the strange woman with his eyebrows raised. “...Party?” He lowers his hands into the suds.

“She doesn't mean a literal party,” Dave sighs.

The woman frowns. “I don't?” She busts out the million-watt grin yet again. “Because I'd say we're about to have a pretty _revolutionary_ party!”

Dave waves as if to usher her further into the doorway, into the kitchen, and she lopes inside. The top of her hair barely brushes the doorframe. She doesn't shut the door behind her, and no one else moves to, leaving Roxy to run over and do it. She hates how casual her family is about these things...

“Come on, Striders! We have an extremely important meeting today. I think I've finally gotten through to the radicals I've been assigned to, and they're coming by with some representatives to see our resources and plans!” She does another thumbs up. “Resources! Plans! We have those things! They're great! There's no way these guys are gonna turn us down, right?”

Dave snickers behind his hand. “I haven't seen you this thrilled since... _ever,_ really.”

She doesn't sit down, instead staring at him expectantly. Dave explains that Rose is just finishing getting ready.

“Can I go?” Dirk asks. He's tossed his silverware back in the sink and is drying his hands. Roxy notes, with some annoyance, that she'll have to clean those dishes if he doesn't.

The troll woman whips around before their father can get a single word out. “Yes!” she cries. “We need young recruits like you!”

“Aradia, Rose really isn't okay with that,” Dave says. Dirk turns his face to lock eyes intensely with his father. “But you're _not_ not okay with it?”

“No – don't twist my words, Dirk. It's dangerous...”

“I've beaten you in combat a million times over since I got here!” Dirk huffs. “You brought me back to this war-torn place, why not let me defend it?”

“Ooh! Willing to be on the front lines!” Her red lips split open to reveal that manic, mercifully dull-toothed grin again. “We definitely need _those_ sorts!” She puts a companionable arm around Dirk, the two of them at equal height for doing so. “You know, I just don't understand people's aversion to death in this agency. Death is an inevitability! If you're willing to risk so much for a cause already, why not put all of your cards on the table, hmm? We're all just so _mortal_ , death is always lurking around the corner regardless, might as well devote it to some cause and get martyred.”

“Please don't practice your recruitment speech on my son, he's a reckless teenage boy so he's _going_ to be seduced – Roxy!” Dave points down the hall. “Get your Mom, please.”

Roxy leaves, Aradia still chatting her stubborn brother up. She knocks on her mom's bedroom door absently, wondering how in this tiny apartment she didn't hear what was going on and come out already.

She knocks again, and this time, the door creaks, moving slightly. Roxy realizes it's not shut tight. She grabs the door and starts to pull it open, glancing inside with puzzlement. Her mom's sitting at her dresser, her back to the door. She's deeply engrossed in something, hunched over and... muttering? To herself?

Roxy clears her throat. “Hey, Mom, Dad wants to know if you're ready.”

Rose gives a jolt and then turns around. The way she's turned most of her body to look at her daughter means Roxy can see what she's so engrossed in. And there, clutched in Rose's hands, is a glowing, white orb, the sight of which fills Roxy with a curious familiarity.

“What's that?” Roxy asks, taking a step towards her mom.

“What?” Rose follows her daughter's pointing finger to her hands. “It's nothing.” She sets it on a small, purple pillow on the dresser, both to keep it from rolling away and, Roxy guesses, because the thing is delicate, made of glass. She can't imagine what else would produce that sort of shine. Is it the surface glowing, Roxy wonders, or some light shining out from the center...?

“It's magic, isn't it?” Roxy asks, frowning. “White magic? You can't do white magic, can you?”

“What did your father need, Roxy?” Rose asks, standing up from her seat. Her body blocks the orb from her daughter's view. Roxy gives the space now occupied by her mother's stomach another puzzled frown before answering the question. “That Aradia lady is here. Oh, and she's trying to recruit Dirk.”

Rose curses quietly and immediately rushes out of the room. Roxy lingers for a few moments more, watching the orb, before deciding her mother will notice if she stays behind too long, and follows her back out into the kitchen.

“My son is not going anywhere near our organization,” Rose declares as soon as she has entered the room. Aradia smiles close-lipped in reply, but Dirk scoffs. Roxy thinks the return of his temper is one of the worst things to happen since he and their mom were reunited.

“Oh?” Dirk says. “So it's okay for me to go to the training facilities and learn combat with those people and know their secrets, but it's not okay for me to actually help them?”

“Secrets?” Rose gives a sarcastic laugh of her own. “You don't know any _secrets._ You two know common knowledge.”

“So I could walk into any police station, then, and not get us in trouble?” They glare each other down.

Unfazed, Aradia points out, “One meeting couldn't hurt.” She slips her arm off Dirk's shoulders. Both Striders neglect to reply. But they have heard her. Dave coughs and says, quietly, if Roxy's okay being alone tonight, it's not really a meeting where they're going to do anything but talk, anyway.

Rose sets her jaw. “Fine. You think that because you're seventeen years old that you're a man, fine. You can come with us.” She begins marching towards the door. “And you can back out if what you find there doesn't suit you.”

Roxy sees her brother start to grin and then smother it with feigned solemnity. “I won't back out.”

Dave rolls his eyes at his son's attempts at smoothness as he gets to his feet. He ruffles Roxy's hair in a way that would infuriate her were he anyone else, and then the group leaves all together. Roxy watches the door after they've left, listened to Aradia's cheery but muffled voice grow fainter and then disappear. She has the feeling she's going to be left alone like this a lot in the future. She might as well make the most of this privacy, though, and so she heads back to her mother's room.

She settles down on the hard wood, low-back chair her mother has set in front of her dresser. Both pieces of furniture are plainer and cheaper than anything their family would've owned a few years ago, even if they never were the sorts of people to invest in extravagance like John. The pillow the orb is resting on is pretty, at least, but for all Roxy knows, her mother could've sewn that braided, shiny thing with a golden fringe.

Roxy reaches forward to touch the orb, and its warmth brings a jolt of memory back to her – of course! The little shop, in the center of town! A place on a side-street, shabby, despite its location near the royal district. That's where Roxy first saw this thing, or something like it... no, no, this is it. This is definitely the same orb. The way it thrums in her hands, as if alive, as if _greeting her_ after a long time apart. The thing reminds her of a happy cat, and she chuckles at the thought of it meowing and bouncing for joy at the sight of her. Then she feels slightly melancholy, for having had to leave Jasper behind in Prospit. Roxy really hopes Jane takes good care of that mangy little doofus...

Roxy slides her hands all over the orb. Did her mother buy it back then, or is that shabby wreck of a place still in business, still failing to sell this thing after years and years? Roxy stares deep into it, as if she will find the answers to her questions there. And then she keeps staring. She keeps staring until the thrum seems to reverberate in her ears. She stares until the light seems to crackle and sway, until her mind starts to drift in total and utter...

She closes her eyes, and shakes her head, and takes several, loud breaths, whose purposes are to break the silence that is burrowing deep inside her head. She puts the orb down and squares her shoulders, hums a song, blinks until the afterimages of the orb's light go away.

She didn't see or hear anything coherent. Roxy gives a defeated sigh – definitely no propensity for magic – and then gets up and leaves her mother's room completely.


	18. Act 3, Part 3: Child of God

Act Three: Return to Derse

Part Three: Child of God

* * *

“I saw Cronus Ampora this morning.”

Roxy spoons another glob of mashed potatoes onto a carapace's plate with a smile. The line keeps on moving. “Yeah? Did he want to get back together or anything?” She doesn't turn to look at her brother, figuring that if he wants the privilege of eye contact, he can come help her serve food to this huge group of people.

Dirk leans back in the wooden, fold-out chair he has pulled up. “No, not really. He seemed glad to see me, but he didn't try to hit on me or anything.”

Roxy nods. The last she heard, Cronus was living in a safe house run by revolutionaries. He was legally an adult, but since Eridan died, he'd had no ties with his caste, and had been left behind by nepotists who'd rather hire highly-educated blue-blood friends than some orphaned sea-dweller kid. So even now Cronus relied rather heavily on the people who had saved him, from both his guardian's murderer, and the subsequent homelessness that would have followed the empress's lackeys seizing the Ampora estate. Roxy imagines that a trauma like that tends to humble a person.

She serves food. The line moves. When she doesn't say anything for a while, Dirk goes on. “He's lost a lot of weight. I almost didn't recognize him.”

“He still think of himself as human?” Roxy asks. One of the carapaces in the line asks her if there's any gravy, and she apologizes, saying they don't have the money to spare for such amenities. He frowns, but moves down the line and gets what he can without complaint.

Her brother sighs. “He didn't say much, just that it'd been years since we'd seen each other. His cheeks were almost caving in...”

“It's probably all those cigarettes,” Roxy says with a sigh. The woman she's serving looks confused, and Roxy smiles back apologetically. “The guy behind me – I'm talking to the guy behind me.” The woman nods and asks if it'd be possible for an extra scoop. Roxy is forced to decline.

One of Roxy's coworkers comes up and relieves her. “They need you in the back, to load boxes.” Roxy nods, handing over her apron and gloves. Dirk stands, folding his chair back into place and placing it aside, out of the workers' way. “I'll help, Roxy.”

“You don't have to,” she replies, but he follows her out through the back entrance and into the yard, anyway. There are no other people around. The guy who drove up the carriage that delivered the orders isn't even there – just a mostly diminished stack of boxes, lying around in the driveway. Roxy sighs, once again cursing this place's lack of organization... Of course, if they had more volunteers...

Dirk picks up a box and she doesn't tell him to put it back down. “Roxy, do you honestly like working here?”

She wishes she could shrug, but given the weight of the crate in her arms, she doesn't trust herself to. “Yeah, I mean. It's not exactly tons of fun, but I'm helping people at least.” She and her brother head back inside to drop the crates off in the kitchen. “I'd be bored out of my mind in a place like this,” Dirk says.

“Well, we're not the same people, are we?” Roxy she sets her box down in a corner at a kitchen worker's urging. Her brother follows suit, and then the two head back outside. “I like action and adventure as much as the next person, Dirk, but this is real life.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ I want to help, but I'm afraid to die.” She walks a little faster than him, heading quickly for the pile of crates. The faster they get this job done, the faster she can go off somewhere else and end this conversation. “And to be perfectly honest, I don't believe that what you and Mom and Dad are doing is even the right way.”

“Yeah? You don't?” She heads towards the entrance of the building with the hope of staving off her brother's lecture, but Dirk blocks her way. “Are you telling me you can just _talk_ violent people into submission? What other way is there to fight people like the Condesce, except by her own means?”

Roxy sighs. “Yeah, I'd punch out a dude if he hit me first. But I'm just not about that life.” She tries to maneuver around him, but he remains in her way.

“We _were_ punched first, Roxy.”

She sets her jaw. “Not _literally_...”

“No. No, I suppose the difference between an invasion of the castle and a punch is pretty big.” He leans forward, expression intense, and Roxy thinks he might be trying to intimidate her. It only serves to make her angry. “People are being hurt by this regime, Roxy, and we need to save them in the most effective way possible.”

Roxy smiles humorlessly. “I just don't believe killing some senator is going to change the shitty system.”

She's walking a dangerous line with that remark. Dirk's eyes narrow, but he doesn't scold her for the comment. Perhaps, if people were to hear them, it would only serve to confirm what she said, to those who thought she might just be speaking in vague examples.

“No,” Dirk replies. “But wiping the whole government out might. It's hard to run an oppressive operation without any oppressors.”

With that, her brother turns around and strides away. She waits until he steps over the threshold before she calls out, “We're upperclass, too – or we were, once. We're white. We're a part of the problem. Should we die, too?”

“That's not what I'm saying.” He disappears into the building. She glares after him. She hates him for getting the last word, for making his argument in favor of violence seem so logical. Why can't he just accept that they have differing opinions on this?

With a sigh that is far more defeated than any she would let her brother hear, Roxy reenters the soup kitchen. As long as this place isn't officially affiliated with any revolutionary organizations, it should be safe. _She_ should be safe.

→

Hours later, Roxy says her last goodbyes to her coworkers and begins the trek home. A frigid wind whips past her face, and she shivers, pulling her scarf tighter around her. The air is damp; it's going to rain, she's sure, but she hopes it holds off until she gets home. She glances up at the sky, then sighs; she can't do that here, not like she could in Prospit.

She walks down the darkening streets, thankful for the street lamps and the stragglers on the sidewalks keeping her from being utterly alone. She walks past a few human men sitting on a stoop and they hoot and holler as she passes. She mentally tells herself over and over that they won't follow her, and, to her relief, when she looks over her shoulder several minutes later, they are far back in the distance, still at their post. She lets out a breath she'd been holding and it warms her scarf for several seconds.

It takes her twenty minutes walking to get home. She walks exclusively through poor neighborhoods, but she doesn't feel particularly unsafe. For every seedy guy, there are several people she's come to know in the past month – her coworkers in the soup kitchen, neighbors her parents neglected to get to know, other revolutionaries living quiet lives on the side. And then there are those who visit the kitchen, of course, who wave hello to her on the street.

When Roxy enters her house, her family is, surprisingly, already home, lounging around in the tiny space that now passes for their living room. “How are things with the job the Mayor hooked you up with?” Dave asks.

“Pretty good,” Roxy replies, untwisting her mother's scarf from around her neck. “We've got connections with this pumpkin farm, but like, we're getting too many shipments, so we gotta put pumpkin in everything before it expires. I imagine everybody’s gonna get sick of it soon...”

“I imagine those people are grateful to be eating at all,” Rose replies. Roxy doesn't like this comment, but she can't figure out why, so she keeps quiet about it.

She goes to join her mother on the couch. Her dad's on the floor fiddling with some mechanism or other that appears to be broken, and her brother isn't here. He must be brooding in their room.

Roxy looks over her mother's shoulder at the tome in her hands. “Is that a grimoire?”

“Yes.” Her mother flips to a page with a red five-pointed star, surrounded by candles. A transmutation circle – very old school, big magic stuff. “What are you looking up that junk for? If you're coming down with something, you can just go to a witch or a doctor place and get a potion for it. I heard those things were messy.”

“No one ever used these things for colds, Roxy,” Rose says with a laugh. “They're a last resort for big, violent injuries. And even then they rarely do much but heal the skin quicker.” She turns the page again. “I don't know anyone who has ever perfected the cosmetic aspect of it, but then, surgeons and doctors are getting far better these days, so who would really want to?”

“Someone who wanted to change their face totally, or maybe their species?” Dave supplies, not looking up from his rapidly failing repair task.

His wife scoffs at the idea. “It'd never work. Changing a whole body requires more power than any person could possibly generate and spells that have yet to be invented. Besides – changing the body isn't the only use of a transmutation circle.”

Roxy watches her mother's fingers trace the lines of text on the page. Even after years of missed training, she can make out what the sentences mean. Something about demonic theory, or summoning, or whatever along those lines. Roxy is really only focussed on the black, shiny polish on her mother's nails, feeling quite free from grimdark's grasp.

“No demons have stepped foot on this continent in years,” Dave sighs, twisting gears and squinting at the object in his hands. Roxy thinks it looks vaguely like a watch, but it's been so thoroughly gutted that she cannot be sure. “You're not going to bring one back.”

“You think I'm not capable?” Rose purrs, voice utterly bereft of offense. “It's the sheer unreliability of my powers, isn't it? Or I'm just not powerful enough.”

Dave shakes his head. “I'm not saying that. You're plenty powerful. Hell, we had our place in the palace because you're a prodigy.”

“Of _seeing._ Seeing isn't summoning.”

“Whatever.” He waves his hand as if to shove that comment away. “You're talented, you are. But nobody's talented enough to make a demon do what it doesn't want to do, and I'm guessing from their absence that what they don't want to do is be anywhere near war-torn Derse right now.”

She sighs heavily. “Why would human affairs faze them?” Still, she shuts the tattered tome. Roxy silently reads the cover. It's not hard to misinterpret – most people could just look at a book like this would know it said “Grimoire” on the cover.

Rose turns to her daughter. “Are you sure you don't want to keep doing magic with me? You're staring at this book like a starving man looks at a field of ripe pumpkins.”

Roxy rolls her eyes at that comment, but with a good-natured smile, to downgrade her insolence. “Mom, I am _not_ looking at that book like that. I just like the pictures. And sometimes, y'know, you see something written in a language you know, your eye is drawn to it.” She's careful not to let her eyes slide to the book now, lest her mother interpret miniscule body language yet again. “I'm done with magic. And I don't feel sad about it. And you shouldn't, either.”

Rose sighs. “I just wish you'd stick to it enough to let me teach you basic wand-training. You could use some self-defense, especially in a neighborhood like this.”

Roxy shrugs. “I've got a mean fist on me. Ask Karkat sometime.” It never ceases to amaze her how her parents have brought her and her brother into the thick of such danger, only to scold them both for becoming embroiled in it.

→

The next day Rose puts her hands on Dirk's shoulders and tells him he's exceeded her expectations of him. Roxy watches enviously from the couch as her parents praise him for feats gained in the very organization they tried so hard to keep him out of.

“Without you, the Humanists would have never come to their senses.”

Dave slaps him on the shoulder. “Everybody was saying you should come tomorrow, too, and talk to the loyalists. With a display like that, they'll definitely come around.”

“Stop, stop,” Dirk says, pushing their hands gently away, but Roxy thinks, sourly, that he's probably just trying to seem modest, and truly loves the praise.

Rose gets one last kiss on his cheek in. “We're proud of you. Don't push that away; you deserve every ounce of praise you get.” She pulls away from his face just as he turns a deep, deep red that Roxy hasn't seen him go since the last time Jake was mentioned. Her brother is usually all strong and silent these days.

Dave rubs his son's shoulder as he, too, pulls away, following his wife into their bedroom. “We're gonna hit the hay for the night. Old people; exhausted. There's food in the pantry if you and your sister are still hungry. Though I doubt it,” he snickers, thinking of that night's feast.

Dirk grins. “Yeah, yeah. Go, already.” They double back only to kiss Roxy quickly good night before disappearing into their room. She doesn't know how they're going to sleep with how wound up they got over Dirk's diplomatic success and the raucous, yet private dinner that followed, but the sheer amount of praise they've heaped on Dirk for the last hour has probably taken a lot out of them.

Roxy sinks deeper into her seat on the couch. She didn't get a single word in tonight. The conversation was all Dirk, Dirk, Dirk, and yeah, he did some great crap, but Roxy doesn't think the chance to ramble off a paragraph about her day and get some vague nods in return is too much to ask for. They didn't even say goodnight to her, really.

“It's weird.” Dirk smiles in the direction of where his parents disappeared before coming to sit beside her on the couch. “I've always been comparing myself to Dave, and now I feel like I've surpassed him...”

Roxy doesn't do her brother the honor of commending this fine moment of character development. She shoves her face deeper into her textbook; it's not like he even needs her input. He can just monologue to the air and be totally fine for it, she's sure.

“It's nice, to hear them praise me like this. It's nice to finally feel like I'm _doing_ something – you think Karkat would be proud?”

“He'd grumble as little as possible, I'm sure,” Roxy replies. Despite the flippancy of the comment, her brother finds this incredibly funny, and laughs.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a smirk, “I bet he'd grumble as little as possible with you, too.”

Roxy doesn't want to forgive so easily, for fear of looking soft, but _god,_ she really misses being close with her older brother. She lowers her book somewhat. “...You always act like the soup kitchen is so pointless.”

Dirk shakes his head. “It isn't. You're doing your part. Your less heroic part...”

“See!”

“...But an important part nonetheless,” he finishes. They look at each other for a few moments.

Roxy is the first to break eye contact. She looks at the book she has now strewn on her lap, not really looking at the words written there. “...I think I _am_ heroic,” she says. “I'm just not adventurous.”

When she looks up at her brother again, he seems struck by this. “Yeah,” he agrees after a moment. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

“...You _do_ do a lot more than me, though...” Roxy mumbles. She feels guilty, trying to claim too much for herself.

Dirk shrugs. “Whatever. We're each doing our best.”

 _Yeah, but your best is better than mine, and it's always worth more._ She runs her fingers absently along the sides of her book. She and her brother sit in silence for a few minutes.

“We haven't talked to them yet,” Dirk says, suddenly. “About _that._ ”

He doesn't even need to say what “that” is, specifically, for her to understand. Their family really has only one big That, considering how very unsecretive Rose and Dave have been about their terrorism hobby.

Still, Roxy wonders why Dirk's bringing incest up now, of all times. “We've been home for months. It just seems like bringing it up now would be sort of arbitrary. Why rock the boat, y'know?”

He frowns, looking again in the direction of where their parents went. And, surprisingly, he seems to agree with Roxy. “We _are_ on really good terms, lately. Better than before we left, maybe.” Roxy finds that comment puzzling until he elaborates. “I don't think I've ever seen Rose change her mind about something so quick, and praise me so heavily for it. I honestly don't think I've been this close to her since... since we were little, maybe before Dave went to war.”

“Oh, I'm sure it hasn't been that long,” Roxy insists, but she doesn't really know. Her mother has always been “her” parent. Dave has always been “Dirk's.” Even when they all loved each other, there was a division, a favoritism of sorts.

Maybe Roxy's position as Rose's favorite child is finally in danger, though. “...Do you think she's mad at me, for not doing magic anymore?”

Dirk shrugs. “She hasn't brought it up around me.”

Roxy gives a little huff. She wants him to reassure her more than this. “She's at least _disappointed,_ wouldn't you think?”

He shrugs again. “Maybe.”

Silence, again. Dirk actually twiddles his thumbs. She's starting to sink back into her book when she's pulled out with the classic ice-breaker, “So, what're you reading?”

As if the gigantic, colorful letters on the cover weren't enough of a hint. She taps it for good measure. “Chemistry. I have a test tomorrow.”

He nods, seems to ponder this. Then, “How's public school treating you?”

“Good. The propaganda isn't just in history class, and it's worse than in Prospit, even. You'd hate it.” She turns the page. “You should finish upat some point, though. So you at least can say you've graduated secondary school.”

He scratches his neck. It reminds her of Jake. She pictures letters in butter yellow envelopes with large, lopsided handwriting on their fronts. Secret networks of spies working for the resistance, traveling for hours on foot to deliver messages to distant family and secret plans amongst resistance members and her brother's love notes. Hell, after today, they'll probably take any petty package he wants to anywhere else on the continent. Dirk is just _that_ invaluable.

“Do you think about it very much anymore?”

“Hmm?”

“Our parents. And...”

“Oh. No, I guess not. Some days I probably even forget.”

She reads the same line in her textbook three times over before she gets it.

→

A week later, her parents and brother don't return when they said they would. When she wakes up the next morning, she is alone. As she dresses, and cooks breakfast, and walks three blocks to the public school, a sense of dread creeps up her spine and jumps, hops, frets in the pit of her stomach. She's glad her mother gave up on homeschooling her; maybe class will keep her mind off the doom her family has met, and buy them some more time to return... Or maybe she'll be needing the extra lunch, and the money, and the change of clothes that she tossed into her bag that morning.

When she returns later that day, she approaches her family's apartment with caution. She's afraid that perhaps someone coming to track her dead parents' allies down will have found this place... But when she opens the door, and sees her whole family already inside, she is only allowed a few moments of relief before their stricken faces settle her back into a panic.

“What's wrong?” she asks, shutting the door. They haven't taken off their coats. They didn't even make it into the room with the couches; they're all just huddled together at the kitchen table, close together, hands occasionally touching, or rubbing their temples, their eyes staring into the distance. “Y-you guys are scaring me! Did something go wrong, were we found out, were-?”

“Nothing happened that set back our organization's goals,” Dirk replies, voice soft. He is the least hunched over, the least trembling, the most stony-eyed; Dirk definitely looks the least awful of the three sitting at the table.

“I'm sorry we're late, Roxy,” Dave mumbles, almost mechanically. “We were on clean-up duty.”

At first she doesn't understand what that means. And then she does. “Oh – oh! Did you, what happened, was it our side who got hit, or the other side, was it a big...?”

Dirk shakes his head. “There were no battles or bombings, Roxy, it wasn't quite that kind of clean up.” He reaches over, pushes the empty chair nearest him out from the table without letting go of his mother with the other hand. “Sit down. We'll explain everything.”

Her schoolbag still heavy in her hands with books and a change of clothes, her coat adding a thousand degrees to her body temperature, Roxy sits down beside her brother at the kitchen table. Her mom's eyes are rimmed with red.

“We had to clean up an accident today,” Dirk says, softly. “It wasn't official organization duty, but it was one of the houses, so we were still responsible for it. And it was just us. So it took a while...”

Rose bites her lip, to still her mouth's pathetic quivering so she can speak. “H-he set up a circle, but h-he was so inexperienced, he didn't know how to work that sort of magic...” She dabs at her eyes with the corner of her cowl, a sign of disrespect to her clothes that Feferi would've scolded her for. “His body... God, he utterly _destroyed_ his body...”

Roxy looks at them both, bewildered. “ _Who?”_

“Cronus.” Dave is looking at his shoes, not her. “Cronus tried to transmute his body. And he failed.”

Roxy's throat gets dry. “W-where did this happen?”

“In the apartment the org gave him,” Dave says. He shuts his eyes as he rubs the bridge of his nose soothingly. “He was always saying he didn't like the way he was, and nobody took him seriously. He told us when we got there, he just wanted...”

“When you got there?” Her stomach drops. “He was _alive?_ ”

“Yes,” Rose sobs. “But not _now._ ”

Dirk explains that Cronus's neighbors heard an explosion in his apartment, and sent word out to investigate while they staved off civilians' questions. The Striders had gone both because they were in the neighborhood, investigating claims that soldiers were skulking around the premises of some former court members of the Black Queen, and because the Striders felt a degree of responsibility towards Cronus, having known him when he was young.

The apartment door was jammed. Even with the organization's skeleton key, they had to really fight it to get it open. And when they finally smashed down that cheap door, the first thing they noticed was the smell. A putrid stench, like burnt flesh and dead sea hit them like a tidal wave.

They went deeper inside. The magical energy bulbs were burnt out all over; they had to open curtains, since Rose's wand would be useless for this sort of thing. But she kept saying, she smelled it, that it was something magic gone wrong.

On the floor of Cronus's bedroom was a five-pointed star, circled and illustrated with looping symbols in such a vibrant, rich violet... that which wasn't covered by debris or smeared. Smoke rose both from the candles at each of the star's points and from the huddled mass of flesh in the center. It looked like something from the butcher's shop, a thick, red, charred mass, spinal column visible and then, and then it moved. And there was a yellow eye peaking out of the black char that was once a face, and it whispered, _did it work? Am I human?_

And they stood, in shock, looking at it. And saw its horns. And saw it give a slow, rattled breath. And saw it sink back down into a hunch. And watched it die in that very instant.

“Don't say it,” Roxy whispers.

Her mother reaches forward to wipe a tear off her daughter's cheek. Roxy didn't even realize she was crying “We won't tell you anymore. Dirk, why would you tell your sister that much-”

They all startle when Roxy slams her fist down on the table. “ _I don't mean that!_ ” Her voice is too loud, too shrill. Too weak. “Don't call what you saw _it!_ Say _him!”_ Her lips tremble. “That was _Cronus,_ that was a living person!”

Dirk purses his lips before replying. “Sorry. Disassociating made it easier, I guess.”

“We were the ones who cleaned him up, Roxy,” Rose murmurs. “I saw him when he was a little boy who scraped his knee and got back up and laughed, and this morning I had to scrape his flesh off the floor and into a body bag!”

Dirk rubs her shoulders reassuringly. It's okay, he tells her, they're home. Roxy tries to picture her family, alone for hours in that apartment, on their hands and knees cleaning up Cronus's remains. She can't; it's a fantasy so wild and macabre that her imagination can't (won't) grasp hold of it.

“This is war,” Dirk says. “We have to get used to the sight of death. No matter how gruesome. No matter whose it is.”

Roxy wants so badly to glare away her brother's empty philosophizing, but she holds in the hostility because she happens to have more tact than he does. She just can't believe Cronus Ampora is really dead.

Her dad's shoulders are wracked with silent sobs. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles. She's not sure whether it's aimed at her, or anyone else here, or. Or even Cronus. “I'm really, really sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the more morbid chapters i've written
> 
> there are currently 23 chapters of this fic finished. my motivation is dead as hell so i'm not seeing this fic getting done by the end of my winter break, meaning it will probably be on hiatus after whichever of the last chapters i get done by the end of my break goes live. i won't abandon this fic, though; i have detailed outlines of what to write. plus only like. 6 chapters to go. (although at about 4k words each, which, with a gigantic finale planned, it'll take a while to write.)


	19. Act 3, Part 4: You Say You Want a Revolution

Act Three: Return to Derse

Part Four: You Say You Want a Revolution

* * *

 

Cronus's death still weighs heavily on her mind the next morning. Returning to Derse was supposed to mean reuniting with all of the people she knew growing up, but the universe is determined to not to let her forget that the place she so dearly missed is a war-zone. It's not enough that her parents and brother disappear for hours on end, night and day, to do whatever it is they do that will eventually bring about the Condesce's downfall; no, fear for their safety isn't enough. Roxy has to deal with people actually dying now.

She reminds herself, spooning food onto a homeless man's plate, that Cronus's death supposedly had nothing to do with this war itself. Still, given the chaos the whole country has fallen into, his departure from the world of the living only serves to heighten her fear that her own family members will die. Hell – _Roxy,_ with as much care as she has taken to keeping herself far from the battlefield, may die herself. Maybe people who come looking for her family will torture her for information on the resistance. Maybe she'll simply die in a random mugging. Shit, she could fall fatally ill tomorrow just because she breathed in the right combination of germs. The morbid possibilities are endless.

The woman working next to Roxy, serving beans, tells the woman serving corn that her daughter joined a resistance militia. “It's awfully brave of her, and it's not that I don't want to support the troops, but I rather the troops send someone else's child into danger. She's just a girl, she hasn't even had a proper boyfriend yet, and now she wants to go off and die in some street-fight like her father.”

“That's what happens during wars,” the woman spooning corn replies, somberly. “Everyone's roles in society get all topsy turvy. It's because all the men are dead.”

A coworker comes to relieve Roxy of her duties in the lunch line. She is given janitorial duties in the kitchen as a replacement. She spends an hour on her knees on the floor, scrubbing the food and mud-caked tiles, cleaning up death far less graphic and meaningful than that which her parents had to just yesterday.

→

When Roxy's shift ends, she grabs her schoolbag from the back room where the employees keep their belongings. She checks inside it, paranoid, and sees nothing is missing. Even the money and the change of clothes are still in there – she forgot to put them away last night after the news about Cronus left her reeling.

She snaps her bag closed and throws it over her shoulder. She waves goodbye to those who wave to her first, and then goes out onto the street, and heads home. Several uniformed highbloods and carapace pawns pass her on the street, and she walks with her eyes trained on the path before her to avoid suspicion. Bizarrely, no one on the street around her gets patted down. Not a single lowblood or any other lower class resident of this neighborhood is stopped and frisked. She starts mentally counting the number of soldiers with the Condesce's emblem on their chests that she sees – one, two, four... she passes _six_ in a mere minute.

She stops. She looks around the sidewalk, and notices that all of these soldiers are moving in the opposite direction from her. They're not running, like they would if they were chasing someone, but they're walking with urgency. Perhaps they've all been called to return to their posts, or-?

There is a thunderous explosion. Heat and noise hit Roxy all at once, and she staggers back, startled, waving at the stench of smoke that has suddenly filled the air. She opens her eyes and squints, the initial blast dissipated enough for her to see. Several hundred feet away, at the next street corner, a building that was once a bakery is now being viciously licked by violet and red flames. Smoke billows up and into the sky like the stuff of horrorterrors, and... no, no, Roxy sees shapes in the smoke, teeth and fangs and hollow eyes rising up into an unmistakable darkness that covers the skies above the street, writhing and gnashing and moaning, and she realizes that the explosion, the illusions she sees in the resulting smoke have to be the work of grimdark magic. Civilians are suddenly running and screaming past her, and she whips around, turning, seeing not a single soldier returning to help. Of course. _Of course._

She turns back around to look at the fire, and a carapace man has stopped before it. He is hesitating, like Roxy, but then he is not, throwing off his jacket and brandishing his arms, high, speaking in guttural tones and the flames, the smoke seem to move away from him, but only barely. The man is sweating now, chanting harder, trying to bend the great and powerful magic before him to his will, but it isn't working, and a troll woman shouts, “ _What are you doing?!_ ”

Roxy watches as the woman plunges into the flames. She's sacrificing her body to save whoever is inside that building. The man looks more panicked than ever, and begins to scream for help, help quelling this, or it will spread to the other shops and burn the entire street down. Roxy feels her fingers itch, her heart pound with adrenaline and-

She turns and runs. She runs, panting, melting into the crowd like one drop of water in a roaring sea of terror, runs until she finds the nearest side street she can turn onto.

Roxy jogs into the darkened street, wedged between two buildings... an alley. She pants, her heart pounding in her chest, the sound of turmoil reduced to distant footsteps running, the occasional, far-off cry for help. She'll take this side street, and she'll avoid the fire, and she'll go home. She'll go...

She comes to a stop. Her breathing is loud in this veritable alley, and seems to echo. She leans down, bracing herself by one arm on the wall. She stares at the ground, at her shoes, covered in soot and dirt; they used to be bright pink, she thinks. Jane got them for her for one of her birthdays in Prospit. They look so cheap and worn, now, utterly filthy.

She give a loud, broken sob. Just one. She slides to where she's sitting on her knees, and reaches into her bag for her spare shirt to wipe at her eyes. Can she really go home right now? What if the block gets evacuated? Is there even anyone around who _cares_ enough to make sure the people in this area are safe?

Her tears dry up quickly. The roughness of the brick against her face is going to leave at least a temporary mark, she's sure. Her hair is in her mouth.

Slowly, she rises to her feet. The kitchen – she'll go back to the soup kitchen for now. There are adults at the kitchen, friends of the Mayor. They'll know what to do, they'll provide some stability.

She leaves the alley. The street is empty except for a few stragglers, their sprint reduced to a jog by exhaustion, by apathy. They've been at this life for longer than Roxy.

→

Roxy was emotionally composed, up until the moment the women working at the soup kitchen had swarmed her asking if she was alright. She swallows the tears threatening to come up and render her incoherent, and in a wobbly voice, details the explosion down on the corner of 4th and 13th Street. “That was definitely the work of her imperiousness,” one carapace whispers. The others nod very slightly, worry etched onto their faces. “I'll let someone know,” says a rather young, troll woman. She rushes out the front door, likely headed for the nearest revolutionary post. Another troll woman, an older one, presses her wrists together and raises them above her head, blessing herself.

The front dining area is crowded with people, and so Roxy's coworkers insist she sit in the storage area and clear her head, although she is free to come out whenever she wants. She figures from the way they shield her leaking face that this move to the backroom is for the sake of her privacy, so she can compose herself. They leave her with a chair and a cup of water.

She's sitting in the windowless, tiled room, wondering what time she'll be able to get home. She drains her cup and puts it on the ground beside her. She then reaches back into her bag for her spare shirt, only to look up and see a short, black carapace man merging from behind a very tall stack of crates. His head and neck swathed in a beige scarf, his arms full of tin cans, and he smile so widely when he sees her that she can see the corners of his mouth over the fabric of his scarf.

“Roxy! How are you?” the Mayor asks.

Her mouth opens before she can think of how to reply. What in the world is he doing here? “A-aren't you usually doing revolution...y stuff this time of day?”

He laughs. “Your brother's got a good handle on things over there, so I'm taking the day off.” Roxy resists the urge to roll her eyes at the mere thought of her brother heading the organization to any degree. The Mayor frowns at her from behind the rough fabric of his headscarf. “You seem upset. Is everything alright?”

She's embarrassed he can tell, and starts to lie to save face. “Oh, yeah, it's...” Her lips twist. “No, it's not alright. I saw an explosion just a couple of blocks away, just now.”

“That's awful!” He comes to stand a little closer to her, but he doesn't invade her space. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She purses her lips together, trying to keep herself from starting to cry. “But I saw it was a magical explosion, I _saw_ the spell, but I didn't stop to try to decode it and break it down. I just... I just ran away!” Her voice hitches. She squeezes her shirt tightly in her hands.

The Mayor clicks his tongue. “Roxy. You are just a kid.”

“That's no excuse!” She's starting to really cry, now. “I know grimdark magic! I should've stopped to help, but I didn't! There was a man there, struggling all alone, and I just ran!” She buries her face in the shirt. “Just 'cause I'm a kid doesn't mean I'm not capable! I could've helped, but I didn't!”

The Mayor is quiet. He bends down so he can gently let the cans in his arms down onto the floor without denting them, and then comes over to stand beside Roxy. “I did not mean to say you are not a capable magic user. I only meant to suggest that you're very young... and besides that, Roxy, you are not a soldier. You do not have a responsibility to save everyone.”

“My parents are resistance members, they have that responsibility – my brother, too!”

“You are not them.”

“But I should've at least _tried_ to help _._ ”

There is a moment of pause. “...Yes. Maybe you should have. But there is no guarantee you could have stopped that fire. You mustn't blame yourself for hypothetical outcomes we have no way of knowing.”

She feels his hand tentatively touch her shoulder. She doesn't shake it off. He pats her gently. She hates the way her tears are wetting her shirt, and she hates how much pressing her face to this stupid shirt must be ruining her makeup. She probably looks like an utter mess right now.

The fact that she has all but given up on grimdark barely consoles her. She feels she has a responsibility, even if the Mayor says she doesn't. If Dirk had been in this situation, he wouldn't have run away. He and her dad would dive right into that building and save people. And Rose, Rose would quell that bad magic in an instant. Even if she wasn't powerful enough to overcome it, she'd still give it her best. No, who is Roxy kidding, doubting her like that? Her mom could have saved everyone today easily.

She turns away from the man comforting her. He takes the hint and backs away, returning to his duties. She hears the clinks of stacking cans. Eventually, she turns her face to watch. He's bringing over crates full of donated cans, and he's setting them all up in nearby piles, organized by food type. It should be tedious, boring work, but he hums as he goes about it. Roxy offers to help, but he shake his head. “You're off duty.”

“I work as a volunteer! There's no overtime pay to worry about.” Still, he insists she shouldn't bother. Eventually, she pulls out her schoolbooks and gets to work on homework instead. She hopes someone will come to get her when everything is safe.

→

Dirk comes marching into the back of the kitchen several hours later, his mouth a straight line, his brow narrowed. He asks if she is alright and she says she is. She doesn't tell him how she failed, thinking he will only disdain her for it.

“Where are Mom and Dad?” she asks.

“Damage control. We were worried about you, Roxy – you weren't home.”

The Mayor laughs and says something about the big boss being allowed to go wherever he wants while the lackeys stay at work. Dirk doesn't even deign to turn around and meet the eyes of the older man as he curtly replies that he's not the leader.

“No,” the Mayor says, “Not _the_ leader, not yet.”

Annoyed, Roxy clears her throat to remind them she's still there. “I was walking home from here when the explosion happened,” she explains. “I didn't have time to get home and I was afraid the streets would be crowded or it'd be dangerous if I tried to get past the site where it happened, so I came back here.”

Dirk nods. “You did the right thing.” The words are genuine coming from Dirk, but given what she knows of her own failure, they still sting.

She says goodbye to the Mayor as she puts her textbooks away. Then she swings her bag over he shoulder and follows her brother out.

The weather has returned to what is normal for late spring, and the air is humid when they step outside. Roxy says out loud that she hopes it doesn't rain, and Dirk hums vaguely in reply. As they walk down the darkening, empty street, she asks her brother what happened at the explosion site. He says a family of lowbloods – a ward, two matesprits, and one of the couple's moirails – were killed in the fire, and their business and living space both have been mauled. The store located directly next to it suffered a degree of damage, too, but save for some burns, no one inside was mortally injured.

Dirk says that the site of the explosion today had a basement where lowblood radicals used to gather before they joined in with the rest of the revolutionaries, adopting their meeting places instead. “Thankfully, this means none of our ranks today were lost or injured in the event.” This comment bothers Roxy, but she doesn't voice why. Dirk goes on to say that the bombing was, of course, carried out by the Condesce's government. “Witnesses say she didn't even try to be subtle about it. There were soldiers swarming the area right before it blew.”

“Yeah,” Roxy confirms, “I saw at least six walk past me when I was heading up in that direction. I though it seemed kind of fishy so I stopped walking that way for a second, and that was when I heard the bang, and suddenly everything was burning down.”

Dirk nods. “It was grimdark magic. It took a whole team of people to control.”

They walk on, falling silent as people approach. They turn a corner and are alone again before Roxy asks. “...How many people did it take, to quell the fire?”

“Five, I'd say.”

She nods. They pass by a troll sleeping on the front steps of an apartment complex. Is he locked out of his own home, or is he just a squatter?

Roxy turns to her brother. “We should have a funeral for Cronus.”

He frowns. “Who would pay for that?”

Would Dirk have said something like that, a few years ago? “It doesn't have to be anything big. I know we... I know it's too late for a coffin or anything like that. We just need a little gathering, to pay our respects to the guy.”

They pause at a corner to look for traffic. The street is utterly empty; it is twilight, past the time that most people return home from cushier jobs, yet too early for laborers to get off work. Her brother hums. “Aradia would probably go for that, but he didn't have many friends. It's a hollow gesture, anyway; it'd only really make _us_ feel better. It wouldn't make his death any less real or awful.”

“I didn't think it _would_.” Honestly, is he patronizing her? “I just think we'd feel better if...”

“ _You_ might feel better,” Dirk cuts in, “but it might make other people feel worse. I think it'd be better if Rose and Dave were allowed to just forget about the whole thing and focus on something else. You know how our family gets when we wallow.”

He's being so difficult about this! She stops walking to stand before him, both feet planted firmly on the ground. She succeeds in stopping him; he looks at her like he might a uninteresting bit of scenery. “I'm not talking about wallowing, Dirk! I'm talking about getting some freaking _closure!_ Cronus died in a really horrible way, and it couldn't hurt to try to remember him as he was _before_ that incident!”

Her brother doesn't answer right away. He breaks eye contact, and starts walking again. Roxy feels floored. She quickens her pace to catch up, and sees that, just ahead, is the shop that was bombed earlier. Given the fact it was made of bricks, the frame of the house still stands. But it is lopsided from the blast, with pieces missing off the top, and the glass has been blown out of the windows. The inside is hollow, from what she can see in the windows, and charred so darkly it is almost as if the insides are swathed with black paint. There is debris inside, the roof's shingles, likely, whatever was in the store before it was burnt down. Roxy can't even remember what it used to sell; she walked past it so many times, nearly every day, too. There is soot on the shop next door, but aside from some broken, burnt shutters, it is in far better condition than its neighbor, and the owners will probably resume work the tomorrow for the sake of business.

“Dave doesn't need more reminding of Cronus's death.”

Roxy blinks, coming groggily out of her observations of the wreckage. She's surprised her brother has finally replied to her. She turns to him as they stand before the store together, her eyes troubled. “What do you mean by that? You and Mom were there, too. You saw it all together...”

“You haven't figured it out yet, have you?” Dirk sighs. “That's fine. I didn't, either, until Rose told me. I don't think they wanted either of us to know, but...” His eyes seem sadder, more human, than Roxy has seen them look in a long, long time. “...Dave is the one who assassinated Eridan.”

Roxy is taken aback. “W-what?”

“He's the one who implicated him to the resistance, and he was the one sent to take him out.”

Roxy doesn't say anything. She clenches her hands together, brings them to her chest as if to hold all of the feeling inside there.

For some reason, the thought that her father has killed is shocking. Even though she knows he went off to war, it's hard to picture the soldiers he may have fought as real people when she never met them, when she wasn't even there. Even faced with Jane, seeing her orphaned, it never really hit Roxy that her dad and her dad's colleagues were responsible for that orphanhood; especially when Jane brought it up so rarely. Perhaps they merely avoided the talk because they knew they were on two different sides: the girl who lost her father to war, and the girl who managed to get hers back from it.

But Roxy knew Cronus. Cronus took horseback with her brother and kissed him on the lips and read old books left over from the vestiges of human culture. Cronus was selfish and flirted aggressively and hated himself with a passion that he covered up with a cheesy smile. Cronus had lived with a man he never really knew that well, who was cold and distant and owned the biggest businesses in the port district and was a colleague of her parents and Dave had killed that man and left Cronus alone, to drift in the tumultuous capital, without anybody to look after him, his guardian's estate seized by the wolves of the new government.

“He feels responsible for Cronus's death, like it could've been avoided if he'd done things differently. He isn't sure if killing Eridan was the right thing to do, but he knows leaving Cronus to the resistance's mercy, to be tossed in a funded house and left to his own devices, was wrong.” Dirk turns and begins walking back in the direction of their home. “So drop the funeral idea. It won't do any good to go digging up freshly laid soil; the best we can do is let everyone forget this as soon as possible.”

It feels wrong. But she doesn't bring it up again, and they walk home in a heavy silence.

→

She dreams she carries her brother's child deep inside her. She awakes to a ferocious and unrepentant _bang_ just as, in her dream, she was about to hit the ocean face-first from a terrific height.

She doesn't get the luxury of slowly coming to her senses. She is thrust violently into wakefulness by loud sounds all throughout her bedroom. The door is open. Two people are struggling, punching and grabbing, just feet from her bed. With a jolt, she presses herself flat against the wall, like an animal trying desperately to camouflage itself from predators. It's dark, too dark to see anyone, and there's no light but that of streetlamps outside. Yet she can make out that there are definitely only two forms, and that one is much taller and wider than the other, and they are both fighting wildly to get the upper hand.

Her whole body feels as though it's about to burst with fear as she watches the figures punch and grab at each other. She doesn't want to be killed by some stranger, in her bed, at age fourteen. She doesn't want to die!

Something clatters to the ground, and suddenly, one body, the smaller body, succeeds in thrusting the larger body out of their bedroom.

Roxy remains tense as she hears the two clashing in the hallway. And then she hears a yell that most definitely belongs to her brother – not a fearful yell, but an angry one – and then a sick sound, an impact like she's never heard before, and then a thump, and then... silence.

Four minutes. It has been four minutes since Roxy woke up, and already, it seems the fight is over. She clutches her chest, her heart pounding against her fingers, her body starting to tremble from the shock of it all. Her brother. His bed, his bedcovers are strewn on the floor, he's not in his bed. That was definitely her brother fighting, fighting whoever that was, and then he yelled and. Who won? Who won?!

Suddenly the lights are on and footsteps are barreling out of the room next to hers. “Dirk, what-?!” Her dad gives a strangled gasp. Roxy slowly, her body still shaking, gets out of bed, and, trying to stay steady on her feet, heads out of her bedroom and into the hall, following light and noise.

Her brother is standing with his back to her and their parents. He's standing up straight, leaning back, almost, his sword, a real sword, a sword that is crimson because it's covered in blood, clenched in one hand, his free hand clasping the air like a muscular tic. He's breathing so hard she can see it in the way his back moves, and with his front facing shadow, his back, all of them swathed in light... he seems to be looking at something that is no longer there.

At his feet is the body of a black carapace man. He is – was – extremely thick-bodied, tall, at least six feet, which would mean he towered over her brother in life. His face is twisted in an angry snarl, his face that is on the ground, several feet away from his body and oh god Dirk beheaded him this man this dead body who _was-?_

“Dirk?” their father chokes. “What the hell-?”

Dirk's shoulders wilt, from a stern tightness to a relaxed state. He turns to them, his face bizarrely calm as he speaks. “An assassin. Come to kill us.”

Roxy can hear one of them swallow. She nearly jumps out of her skin when her mother's arm comes out of nowhere and snakes around her shoulders, tugging her very close to her side.

Dirk turns fully to them. There is blood spray on his night shirt. “We're leaving, now.” He kicks the corpse's head in an uncharacteristic show of crudeness. The head grossly flops over onto its side, tongue spilling out, fat and useless between sharp teeth. “There's no way there aren't others far behind him, and they'll want to know where he is if he takes too long. We need to get out of here, and fast.”

Rose grimaces. “But Dirk... we aren't even dressed. And we can't just go out into the world without provisions, with _nothing-”_

“Then you all have _five minutes_.” They flinch away from his angry eyes, his hard tone. Blood glitters on the floor in a pool at his feet.

None of them budge. He bares his teeth. “ _Go!_ ”

They scurry to pack what they can, to change into whatever clothes they have. They have to gingerly avoid the corpse on the floor.

Roxy doesn't know it, but the Striders leave their home in the way that her parents first came into Derse: running in the middle of the night, with poorly prepared knapsacks, a great sin on their hands.

→

Beatrix gets relegated back to a supporting character. The primary plots center around Herbert and his character development again. Beatrix feels bad, but thinks people will find her too needy, too selfish if she complains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter comes a pov shift


	20. Act 4: A Shift in the Tides, Part 1: The Rise of a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dirk gets promoted for killing a high-ranking assassin. And by promoted I mean people are so in awe of him that he assumes command almost effortlessly

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part One: The Rise of a King

 

* * *

 

“I have top marks in all of my science courses. On weekends, I volunteer – er. I _used_ to volunteer at a soup kitchen. My family had to move for reasons relating to our fundamental belief system. Basically, we all believed that we were kinda too young to die. 

“Because of the move, I can no longer work at the soup kitchen, for fear of somebody finding us. But I should still be allowed to attend this school because I'm really handy with my fists and guns and so I can totally clean up after any messes that follow me there! Yeah! So I should totally get full tuition and room and board, too, because none of that was alarming and creepy. Did I mention I have bizarre dreams about my older brother all the time, and I can't tell if they're my _true_ feelings or just me getting all terrified I'll end up like my mom and dad? Yeah, it's not just me, incest runs in my family.”

Wait. Did you actually just acknowledge that, and so blatantly? Hasn't this narrative been dancing around that in a vague and pseudo-profound manner for quite some time? Isn't it too late in the story to change the tone? 

“Aw, what the heck. I'm tired of burying my problems. In any case, I've been having these dreams for so long, they feel _normal_ now – fuck, they're downright _boring!_ And, like, my big bro is a gold-star homosexual who would literally never return my gross feelings, so there's no chance of my bizarre little fantasies becoming _canonically_ gross...”

The words die on your tongue. There is no way you are ever getting into a prestigious private school on a train wreck of an essay like this. Given your family is currently on the lamb, they'll be _furious_ to hear you're mailing documents under your real name, anyway. Conversely, the authorities would be thrilled after the school did a background check on you... 

You crumple up your admissions essay and throw it aside. Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you never had a real chance of getting into that school, anyway. Still, a girl can _dream_ of having an actual future, can't she?

This situation is all Dirk's fault. Because he killed that government guy, your family has to hide way more carefully than before. And because you all have to hide, you can't exactly enroll in a school and finish your secondary education. And not finishing secondary school means not getting into university. And not getting into university means you can't become a badass scientist lady like Jade! Ugh, couldn't Dirk have thought of someone other than himself before he went around assassinating dangerous enemies of the revolution?

And, shit. The fact you can no longer work at the soup kitchen means you're back to contributing _nothing_ again. You're just some useless... _lump_ in your heroic family. Karkat would be so disappointed in your lack of activism right now! He'd probably talk at you with a million curse words and run-on sentences. And he _never_ does that to you. He only ever does that to Kankri, or John, or any stranger who happens to piss him off. And sometimes he ranted to the air in front of you, but not at _you,_ precisely.

You let out an obnoxiously loud sigh, slumping into the divan. You hear footsteps, and suddenly Nepeta is in the doorway, poking her head into the room. “Are you okay, Roxy? How's your writing coming along?”

“Horribly,” you reply. Nepeta's hand flies to her mouth in an “oh no!” gesture, but you wave your hand at her as if to physically dispel her worries. “No, it's cool, really. I've only really been half-trying. I don't have a chance of getting in there, anyway, what with Dirk storming the streets with an army. The revolution will probably reach wherever I choose to apply in no time...”

Nepeta gives you an awkward smile. Under different circumstances she'd probably tell you to cheer up, but given how she and Equius have hidden away in this part of town for the sake of their safety, and are _still_ on alert, she can't bring herself to lie to your face. The war really is spreading. Soon, even the wealthiest districts... Maybe not even the areas in Derse outside of the capital will be safe.

“Leave it to siblings,” you say, “to do everything in their power to fuck shit up for you.”

Nepeta gives another awkward smile. “I wouldn't know,” she says.

→

You glance out of the big window to your left. This is prime real estate Equius has gotten his hands on – probably a favor from the high bloods who put Her Imperious Condescension on the throne. You can see the ocean, very distant, and the hustle and bustle of the port district, which hasn't been hustling and bustling quite as much as you expected it to. Nepeta says high bloods able to are already starting to evacuate. You imagine only those with government jobs or a serious death wish are left over.

The whole house feels moist from the sea air. It's always too hot if you close the windows, or too cold if you open them up to air out the room. The beds are always damp and nothing, no matter how fervently scrubbed, ever seems quite clean enough. But it's a home, and it's stationary, and you wish you could just grow horns so Nepeta could adopt you. Maybe you quit magic too fast, you joke to yourself... then your thoughts stray to Cronus, and you shudder at the thought of transmuting your body in any way.

You spend most of your time here, at Nepeta's, avoiding whatever hole your family is hiding in on a given day, and the bloodshed, and the stony face of your older brother as he slowly transforms into a dispassionate military leader. Your parents trail behind him like loyal subjects, it's – it's weird. They're your parents. They should be scolding him and directing him, not the other way around.

Nepeta sits down nearby to sketch objects in the room. She still doesn't work; Equius won't let her. She'll have the whole house illustrated by the time Equius finally gets fearful enough to whisk the two of them back out into the country again.

They've fought over you. You've always felt like Nepeta had some hidden fierceness to her, and earlier this morning, you caught a glimpse of it – cold anger, hissing through her teeth, “She's family, Equius, she needs our protection and if you're not strong enough to give it, fine, but I _am!_ ” His attempts to roar over her were impressively silenced. Equius had ended up slinking off, grumbling, metaphorical tail between his legs. Nepeta wasn't even half his size, but she could hold her own.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” Nepeta says, now. “You're always welcome here. No matter what he says.”

You shrug. “He never really talks to me, even to tell me to get out, so. It's cool.”

You lower your face to scribble in the margins of your notebook, not even attempting a new essay. When you look up, Nepeta is staring at your face thoughtfully.

“He seems gruff, I know,” Nepeta says. “But it's all an act. He wants you here. I know he does.”

You shrug again, breaking eye contact. You feel uncomfortable. “You don't have to say that to make me feel better. I know my hiding out here is a burden, even if I am, uh, family...”

She shakes her head. “Trust me: it's an act. Equius wants to feel like he's helping you, he really does.” She smiles. “I should feel bad, shouldn't I, using his guilt to get my way? But it's for the greater good!”

Guilt? “What's he got to feel guilty about?”

The triumph in Nepeta's face smooths into a soft, unhappy smile. “He wanted Her Condesce here, and, well. You've seen how little good has come of it. Some of our closest friends have been hurt, have.” Her lips slip over the words. “Have. Died.”

You raise your eyebrows. “But Equius... he wasn't _involved_ involved in usurping the Black Queen or anything, was he...?”

“No,” Nepeta says, and relief instantly floods your veins. You didn't want this to be like what happened with Cronus's guardian all over again... “Not directly. But he still knew things. He still supported her. And now we've lost a lot, as a result of that.” Nepeta's wrings her hands. “I think having you here is a sort of redemption for him – or at least, our attempt not to lose one more.” She makes a weak attempt at a smile. “It's easy to forget, sometimes, that this war's hit people on both sides, sometimes in the same way.”

No, you think. It's such a suffocating force, this constant reminder of death, that you don't think you could even imagine living apart from it.

→

Jane sends you dozens of letters, but you barely have the time to read them. You ask Dirk how he fares and he says Jake doesn't send him quite as many. You want to ask, but what about his letters from Jane, until you realize that he might not be getting any at all. Dirk slips past you and heads down the hall, leaving you to face your parents alone.

“Morning!” Dave chirps. “What're you doing here? Don't you live with Nepeta now?” Your father smiles cheekily at you. He thinks he's hilarious, you can tell, and you pity him with an awkward smile.

“Maybe if you all weren't obsessed with doing stuff that's going to get you killed, I'd hang around here more often,” you say.

“Here” is the kitchen of a run-down flat in a lowblood neighborhood. Your family will only remain here for about five days, tops, and so you don't bother calling it “home.” Your father scoffs over his coffee at you, says, “Well maybe if you were more fatalistic like us, we'd hang more often.”

“Don't recruit our daughter, Dave.” Your mother comes in from the bedroom, sidles up beside her husband and lays her hand on his shoulder. She looks very much the matriarch, hovering over him, her face stern.

“Yeah, but look at what Dirk did when he joined – he turned this whole war around! Imagine if Roxy...”

“Nope,” you say, beating your mother to the protest. You won't have her speaking for you, even when she is representing you accurately. “Nope, nope, don't ask me to join and don't hold me to those standards. I got my own stuff going on.”

“I only have such high standards because you're so brilliant to begin with,” Dave insists, grinning at you. Beside him, Rose rolls her eyes.

Dirk reenters, his face caught in a permanent brand of doom and gloom unique from that of your childhood in Prospit. That was more... sadness, exhaustion. This is more barely concealed rage and deep concentration. As you stand, eating your meager breakfast, you watch him cross the room and sit down next to your father at the table without once looking up from the documents he's reading. You eye the lines on his face – he's seventeen going on eighteen, but he's dramatically aged since you returned to Derse, and arguably, within the week since the assassination, during which he seems to have shot through the revolution’s ranks. He could pass for his twenties, you think. He has a hardness in his eyes like you've never seen before.

“Roxy, eat more than that, come on. That won't fill you up at all.”

You shrug, not taking your eyes off your brother. “I'm okay.”

“We have so much food here, we need to eat it before we move on.”

You don't want this blood money... food. Blood food? That sounds weird. Maybe you can't make a play on words here. “I'm not that hungry.” If you were braver, you'd explain that you're not comfortable eating this plentiful, amazing food that your family has only procured because they are leaders of the revolution. Would it be terrible, if you took a pound of steak and offered it to the nearest destitute-looking people you saw? Would that be too presumptuous? Would this heavy feeling of guilt in your stomach care, so long as you were making an attempt to relieve it?

Your stomach gurgles embarrassingly. Maybe that isn't guilt so much as plain hunger, but you're – you're on a strike. This is _your_ noble cause.

“What's the latest from Jake?” you ask your brother. He finishes reading the document he has. And then flips the page to the next...

“Dirk,” you say, voice sharp. Your father makes frantic hand-signs at you; “He's busy, Rox, let it go.”

You throw them both your dirtiest look. Then you're all false, sugary-sweetness. “Dirk, come on, take a break from your terrorism to have a chat with your favorite sister!”

He doesn't take the bait. Never once lifting his eyes from his papers, he says, “I have a lot of work to do today.”

“Yeah, but it's not like you don't have time – it's daylight! You can't leave the house now, people will recognize you.” Even in Derse, beneath the smog, it's safer for the revolutionaries to work by night.

You thinks he's going to ignore you again, but this time, when he's done reading, he even does you the courtesy of making eye contact. “There's more to waging a war than sneaking around in the dark.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Like burning down houses with kids in them, right?”

“Roxy,” your mother scolds.

Dirk raises his hand and she backs down. “Roxy's free to voice any criticism she might have. I'm not a dictator. If she has something worthwhile to say, I want to take it into account.” 

The exchange infuriates you. The way he just... fucking waved at their mom like some servant, the fact she shows such obedience to him, it's just... It's just so gross! You set your jaw to keep yourself from shouting, to trap the nastier things you want to say inside. “I just think you could be more careful.”

Dirk nods, slowly. “We do our best, but there are such things as unforeseeable tragedies."

You snort. "That's a convenient non-answer."

Dirk shrugs. "All I can do is promise to be as careful as possible."

He's trying to be all... Cool and logical and know-it-all, and it's kind of pissing you off. "Or you could just, you know. Not murder people."

He chuckles. You can't believe he's actually laughing at you. "Yes, we'll fight murder with peace and love, because it's fair that oppressors get their hands held while they've got their knife sheathed in your back."

Your face heats. "I'm just _saying,_ if you're gonna fight, you don't have to blow public places up in the process."

"That's not literally what you said, though. You said..."

"Oh, fuck off!" You picture pulling his face forward into an angry kiss. You shake the disgusting notion away, deciding instead to storm out of the room. You're surprised you don't hear Dirk call after you with some snark, like, "because you're running away, you lose the argument!!", or whatever the callous, hieratically worded version of that would be.

You throw yourself face-down on your bed. After a few seconds, you hear footsteps, and your door opens, and you allow yourself to feel hopeful. But when you feel the hand light on your shoulders, you know that touch belongs to your mother. "Roxy. What's wrong lately? You're hardly ever home, you're fighting with your brother when you are..."

Really? Your mom really doesn't know why you haven't been hanging around? "I'm not welcome here," you grumble into the mattress. "I'm not willing to put my life in danger, but war is all you guys care about anymore."

The hand on your neck pauses. "Honey, I'm glad you want to keep yourself safe. But... Roxy, we're dedicated to our cause. And it won't be easy, to do what we need to do. It might not even get accomplished in our lifetime."

You raise your face from the mattress. "I've never heard you get so negative, Mom - about the futility of the cause, at least. If it's all so pointless, then why do you bother?"

She shakes her head. "You misunderstand; I'm being realistic. I'm not saying it's entirely, or even a little, pointless. I'm just acknowledging that I might not be around to see the benefit of my actions."

"Because you'll die young, or because this war will take a hundred years?"

Your mother strokes your hair, gives you a smile. "Thank you, dear, for calling me young."

You shrug. "You can't tell me you think you think you're old enough to die." 

She strokes your cheek. "Nobody's old enough to die, it seems. But I have long since come to terms with the fact that death does not care about age." Her hand drops to yours and squeezes. "Really puts your little quarrel with your brother into perspective, doesn't it?"

You scowl. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

The guilt thing, the condescending thing, the ducking your head and hiding your ears from conflicts that aren't nationwide thing. "That mom thing!"

She chuckles and ruffles your hair. You want to tell her it's hard, not fighting with Dirk, when he is so infuriatingly mercurial, his moods, his personality, never stable for more than five years' time. But Rose, even if she thinks she can understand your position, she never could. Because, like Dirk, she's always been the inconstant one. 

→

“My lusus,” Nepeta says, “looked like this.”

Her movements are deft. A wildcat begins to form on the page, two-mouthed face benevolent and intelligent, great paws swiping as if at the viewers. Not to attack, you think, but to play.

Watching Nepeta draw reminds you of your childhood. You'd have her and Dirk draw for you for hours – you think now that's how he learned to draw. Watching Nepeta and meeting your demands for wizards and kittens. You don't think you've seen your brother so much as doodle for months. 

"She looks harmless," Nepeta says, "but she was an amazing hunter. She took down creatures twice her size..." She pauses, to concentrate on fixing some faulty anatomy. Then she resumes. "I was never hungry when she was alive. Hunting in a pack, you know - you watch out for one another. It's harder to let others go hungry than yourself... Well, in my experience, selfless people are like that."

You resist the urge to touch the image Nepeta has created. “It must have been hard,” you say. “Losing her.”

Nepeta smiles at her work. “It's been such a long time. It's easy to focus on the nice memories, with the impact so far behind, you know?”

Two mouths. You crack a smile. “She looks like something I'd make.” Nepeta chuckles, but you can't take your eyes off her. Pounce de Leon – a cute name, befitting of Nepeta's guardian. You wonder.

→

Your brother moves through the crowd with a face that is statue still, even as trash and insults are hurled at him. You duck as one of his more devoted followers rises up to combat the object before it collides with you. The crowd is - is so oppressive, god, the irony in that word choice, you think, as a girl with wild, spiraling horns shrieks, " _You're not even from around here!"_

"Go back to Prospit!" "Wolf in destitute's clothing," come the agreeing cries of people of all species as your brother and lackeys shoulder through the crowd, acting as living shields for the rest of your family. Your dad's hand clutches tightly to your shoulder, and your mother's jaw is tense. She holds her head high, however, and refuses to flinch.

→

You decide to make your entrance heroically. What better way to gather troops than make them utterly enamored with your confident, badass self?

You have your supplies - excess food from your family's latest safe house, whatever makeshift rucksacks you could get your hands on, and a hell of a lot of charisma. 

You find the nearest grouping of trustworthy-ish looking people with nothing to do (strangely difficult) and throw your loot down at their feet. They glance at the sacks of food, and then up at you.

"Hey." You give them your best, most sparkling white grin. "Who wants a way to help out the revolution without the risk of dying?"

→

Within a matter of days, your network covers the entire block, and is still steadily growing. You started to get worried your supply wouldn't last, but then people started bringing in donations by the ton. Now, you've got more than enough food for the families in areas nearby recently hit by devastating violence. Dirk and Her Imperious Condescension's war leaves these people in the dust, and it's _you_ who's making sure they survive long enough to see its end.

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you are done being relegated to second best in your own narrative.


	21. Act 4, Part 2: Sibling Rivalry

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Two: Sibling Rivalry

* * *

 

"How _dare_ your people insinuate that it is your flesh broken and your blood spilled! Look at the streets, you'll see not blues or violets but the colors of _fire_ you filthy rotten propaganda-!"

  
"You shut your _damn mouth_ or this bullet goes through your brain!"

  
"Don't even try it, " Dirk snarls, wrestling his way in between the highblood soldier and the carapace pawn. "If you lay a hand on this man-"

  
Perhaps finally recognizing who Dirk is, the soldier slams the butt of his rifle into his head. Dirk avoids enough of the blow to not only stay conscious, but viciously retaliate. Yet with the first act of physical violence initiated, the crowd of soldiers and protestors dissolve into a full-on battle. Rose pushes something into your hands - thin, wooden, wait - a wand, really? _What am I supposed to do with this?_ you mouth before the fighting crowd-members shove you and your mother apart. Irritated, you jam the wand into your pocket, resisting the urge to toss it on the ground, and take a fighting stance, fists up, arms poised to block oncoming hits.

  
You are thankful for the lack of firepower in this brawl - the soldier who hit Dirk must've been bluffing about bullets, because you haven't heard a single gunshot. A man to your right waves his wand once, before someone comes up behind him and grabs his arm violently - oh, god, that's probably going to be a break, but you don't have time to think about that now. You have to focus on beating the shit out of this uniformed carapace guy who's coming at you with bloodlust in his eyes. You manage to take him down with the help on of another human girl beside you, and you want to thank her, but then more enemies are coming and you two are split apart as you struggle to protect yourselves. There is no strategy, no political advantage to this brawl - it is merely chaos.  
Later, when your mother is mopping the blood from your brother's eye, he asks you, "What would you call that?" And you answer, with a scoff, "A street-fight. Obviously."

  
"Murder - would you call that murder?"

  
You're surprised at the question. "Their side, maybe. Ours, never."

  
He looks at you with his eye starting to swell, cuts littering his sharpening cheek bones, and you think, no, not a military leader, he's a delinquent, or maybe a kid beaten to a pulp by a schoolyard bully. "That was self-defense, definitely," you say.

  
He nods. He looks mad, and. You don't understand why he looks so mad at you.

  
"People died out there today, " he says. "That guy, the speaker, the one that soldier went for first - I saw his insides. I'm going to have to contact his mother and tell her. "

  
He can't seem to go on. He ducks his head but he doesn't cry. You don't have the energy to tell him not to take his bad mood out on you.

  
→ 

  
“We don't need your help here!” She's not pretty as she screams it – you can see the spit on her teeth, and the rags she wears cling to her arms like bandages do when wet with blood. “Go back to your – your damn hiding places, go back to your - your damn castle!” She knocks over a table, and whirls around, disoriented, anger enflamed. “Get your clean, shiny face away from me! I don't need help from the likes of somebody like you – you're looking down on me, I know you are!”

You shudder back as she makes a step towards you and then away again. “I-I'm not looking down on you! I just, I have food to spare, you might as well-”

“Get out!” She waves her arms and you flinch, then take a step back. “ _Get out!_ ” The carapace woman's voice strains with the force of her shout. You bite your lip, then turn and run.

After you've left the house, you must be looking as haggard as you feel, because the mayor reaches for your hands. You let him have them, and he rubs them meaningfully. “Not everyone will want our help.”

“But...” You want to point out how the building you just left is in ruins, the fact you could see the woman's ribs, and how, with her wild eyes, can you even trust her to know what's best for her, especially if she's willing to live in squalor like this -

The mayor gives your hands a squeeze, bringing you back. “She will come to us when she wants our help. If she ever wants our help.”

You swallow back the urge to cry. Dirk wouldn't cry, your mom wouldn't cry. You're an adult now. “She'd accept your help,” you mutter.

You regret it, feel it's a petty thing to say, but the mayor just looks thoughtful. “Would you like me to try?”

The woman in there was violent and mean and she looked like she was delirious with hunger. “Yeah. Please.”

→

“You mean people don't just _say_ they don't need your help, to sound tough?”

Your mother sighs. “Often, when someone asks you to leave them alone, you simply need to comply.”

You slip into a chair at the table. You rest your head on your arms, watching your mother prepare a potion over the stovetop. She says it's supposed to induce visions. She hasn't been having trouble seeing the future – er, the “vague hints of what might be” - like she did years ago, but she isn't getting visions fast or precise enough to cover all of the action that the resistance wants to cover.

You scowl. “She told me to go back to my castle – what the hell does that even mean? I haven't lived in a castle since I was five, or. Whatever.”

Rose dumps a packet of herbs into the boiling mixture and it belches a tiny puff of violet smoke. “Yes. But you _did_ live in a castle, at one point in your life.”

“So? I don't anymore!”

“But you don't know what starvation is, do you?” An ethereal glow comes from the cauldron. Her face is an interesting contrast of green and shadow. “Even with all the hardship we have faced, we do not lack advantage in our lives, Roxy.”

“Ad _vantage?_ I was separated from you for years!”

“Because your father and I had the means to send you out of harm's way.”

“But... we're wanted by the government!”

“Because your brother, your father, and I have actively attacked the government.” She stirs the mixture so slowly that it must be viscous. “There are people being picked off simply for being born low on the spectrum. I'm not saying your life hasn't been hard – only that there are those who have it worse from the offset, whose lives and motives you cannot even begin to understand.”

You want to ask if being the kid of two siblings makes your life any harder at the offset, but you don't want to have that long, scream-filled conversation right now. Instead, you give your biggest, most teenaged sigh. “Fine. So I should back off if people, especially, like, lower-class carapaces and trolls and stuff, ask.”

She pauses. “Well. You shouldn't be aggressive about forcing your help on them. The woman you described, you said you got the mayor to talk to her and she agreed to eat – that was smart. You don't want anyone to starve to death or, or kill themselves. But, say, if you joined someone else's food organization, and you told everyone how to reorganize things, and they said they didn't want you to do that, or if you started trying to speak for these hungry people, to talk over them...”

Something clicks. “Oh, I won't do that, Mom. But. How is that any different from what Dirk does?”

Rose doesn't answer. You ask again.

“I'm sorry Roxy, I – it's different, I just. Need to focus on finishing this...”

She falls silent. After a while, you leave. The mayor planted a crop of pumpkins as an extra food source, and although they grow quickly and plentifully, they're quickly getting out of control. He needs all the help he can get.

→

Bizarrely enough, Dirk's affair with Jake becomes even more intense now that the two are nearly always separated. When revolutionaries bring him letters he keeps his face straight, but you can see the way his hands clamp over the paper, how his fingers shake as they tear them open.

You yourself receive plenty of letters from Jane – she tells you Porrim is taking good care of your cat, or she was the last time Karkat dropped in and updated them on the affairs of his household. Mostly Jane tells you about the different private universities she's looking into. She describes the illustrious campuses, the ivy, the golden-stoned buildings having faded into a majestic bronze with age, her father's connections to each of these places... then, in a throwaway line, she mentions that Mituna Captor hasn't been in school for a while, that his guardian hasn't been around, that Karkat and John spent a whole night “just quietly drinking away, not bickering even once – out of character for them, eh?”

She makes jokes at Dersites' tendency to “quarrel amongst themselves,” and – and you look at these letters she has sent you, which Dirk's followers have risked their lives to transport back and forth across the border, and you reach the utterly hopeless understanding that you and Jane will always belong to entirely different worlds.

“Darling, she's probably just trying to avoid the censors,” your mother insists. “She can't very well detail the Quiet Genocide for you.” The Quiet Genocide – that was the name people in Derse gave to the disappearances of lowbloods in Prospit, the lack of news, underground or otherwise, as to what was happening, the passivity of Prospitians as they went along with their lives, not a single shout of protest to break the oppressive silence that weighed heavily on their country.

“That Makara's no good,” Dave agreed, shaking a note written in scrawling capital letters. “Here, listen to the shit Karkat says...”

Yeah, so Prospit had its own stuff to deal with. But censoring one's self? In letters sent by night through mysterious emissaries? Yeah, _right._ You knew how Jane and her dad used to talk; you lived with them for _years._ You know how they are about this kind of thing, you don't know why it keeps surprising you or disappointing you. You grumble again about Jane's lack of empathy when your parents are out of earshot, and instead of trying to argue with you, Dirk nods. “She's privileged enough she can avoid having to think about any of that, because it doesn't directly affect her. Some people are like that. They like staying as far out of earshot of the world's imperfection as possible, so they don't have to feel responsible, or guilty, or. Have to worry about anyone but themselves.”

Sitting together, like this, it's the first civil conversation the two of you have had in ages. You rest your head in the cradle of your arms. “Prospitians, man. How do you manage to stay so close to Jake?”

“He's different,” Dirk replies, without missing a beat. “He understands.”

You doubt that, but Dirk's the one who writes to him all the time, not you. Maybe, by some miracle, Jake's got empathy enough to. To want to understand it, at least.

→

He's a sweet little thing. Five. His eyes light up when you hand him that pumpkin, and it dwarfs him. His guardian reaches forward to support him, but he stands firm, keeps his grip steady. Over the top of the pumpkin he looks at you like you are the sun, after a long night spent in the cold. “Can I have this?” he asks. “Can I really have this?”

You and several others who work with you laugh – of course! Oh, of course, and he's smiling, the boy's smiling, and then tears are pouring out of his eyes because he is so hungry, and he's so tired, and he's experienced so many emotions in such a short span of time that it would be difficult for anyone not to cry. 

His parents laugh as they pull him away, tears in their own eyes, profusely thanking you. Your face feels like it's going to split, you can't help but smile. This – this is what you live for. Helping people. Making them happy.

And then there is a rumble, followed by the low moan of metal and stone as it struggles to stay aloft. The mouths of those gathered hang open in shock as a building across the street from your food stand begins to collapse, the noise deafening. You cough through the dust, waving your hand before you to clear it, squinting your eyes, and then there are sparks of darkness zipping through the street with the ethereal moans of the Old Language, the sound of marching feet.

And then uniformed soldiers are emerging from the fog, weapons poised.

You don't know what to do. You don't know why they're here, you don't know where to send these people to protect them. You can feel your body start to tremble with fear, but you block it out the best you can and shove as many people as you can behind your back. You're all up against the wall of a building, and – the building itself, should you go inside, or try to wedge yourselves down the alley? The soldiers come closer and you start to shove the crowd of people gathered at the food stand backwards. “Go!!” you shout, holding up the rear as they run. And - 

You sprint, after them, the mob close behind. You have no idea – no idea if you got everyone, you can really only hope as you run down the narrow pathway that no one's been left behind and hope that if somebody follows you it'll be too small a space for them to hit anyone with magic but you, at the back, god you're so afraid of dying but you can't let these people down, you _can't_ -!

You feel fire lick and your back and you yelp, whirling around and screaming, your hands up to rebuke them, “ _STOP!_ ” and an invisible force sends the people pursuing you, more people than you even realized, flying back, towards the mouth of the alley, knocking each other down as they go.

You're stunned, but only for an instant. You walk backwards quickly, shaking hands still up, mind blank with terror and confusion, and then you turn and run as fast as you can away from the injured soldiers.

→

Why are you always around when these things happen? You parents try to soothe you, to ask if you're okay while your brother grills you on the soldiers' numbers, species, height, weight, eye-colors...

“And how did you say you warded them off, again?”

“I – I guess I hit them with magic, I don't know because I didn't mean to! I just told them to stop, and they did. Really hard.”

He nods, brow furrowed. The survivors are scattered throughout the room, huddled as Dirk's allies interview them. After consolidating their reports, it has become apparent that several people from that morning are missing. Roxy doesn't know at what point during the fray they were lost, and when she can no longer answer her brother's questions as to the people present before the battle broke out, he lets the subject drop.

“I'm so glad you're okay,” your mother says, pulling you close. You feel her lipstick catch in your hair. She whispers, with an uncanny playfulness in her voice, “I told you you were a powerful witch.”

You shake your head so she's forced to move away from you, to avoid getting bumped. “It was a fluke – I probably spoke in the Old Language by accident, and I was scared so the spell was powerful. I'm lucky it didn't backfire on me, I was so out of my mind, I-I didn't know what to do...”

“You did your best,” Dave insists. “A bunch of people survived because of you.”

“Not everyone,” you mutter.

“H-hey, don't be so negative...”

You get up to turn your back to them, to pace around a small, open space in the room. Between the explosions of dust and darkness this morning and the fact that you are now crowded with about forty people in a small, dark basement in a revolutionary base, you are feeling claustrophobic. You watch your parents fall away into the crowd like shadows, working the room as they've been trained to do. You can't remember when last they felt like real people, as opposed to one track-minded cogs in a war machine. They do as they're told, they hang around you only long enough to feel like they've fulfilled the parenting requirement, and even in the between hours, off the battlefield, at home, eating, death and murder and how to use each to their utmost advantage is all they talk about. There's nothing else to them anymore. They're one-dimensional.

Dirk waits until the crowd has cleared to drop the bomb. “I was spotted, today. We have to move tonight, and we've got to get as far away from here as possible.”

You nod mechanically. Okay. You've moved before. “Just let me... let me tell the people in my network I won't be around.” You stand up, legs shaky. “You should've told me, before everybody left...”

“Roxy.” Dirk gestures for you to sit. You remain standing. After a moment, he goes on. “I'm going to need you to keep quiet about us moving around.”

“But... I lead the network, they need me...”

“You've got a lot of employees, and I'm sure they can manage without you.”

“But they use _our_ spare stores of food, what am I...”

“You've also got vegetable gardens and can donations, don't you? Roxy, we have to go, as soon as possible, and we can't risk anyone knowing.”

He's making sense, but it doesn't piss you off any less. “You're always getting spotted. You're never subtle, you're never careful. We're going to be running for the rest of our lives.”

He nods. “Are you finished?”

Your jaw clenches up with anger. You don't speak until you've wrestled your fury down enough to be able to pry it open, to say, your tone blazing, “ _Yes._ ”

Your brother returns your gaze with none of the intensity. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm just trying to keep us safe.”

It irritates you how that line cows your anger. You turn away, to the bare wall, just so you won't have to look at him.

→

“Dammit, Dirk, it's because when the Condesce retaliates, she doesn't hurt us! She hurts low bloods! She hurts lower class pawns and poor humans! All the human nobles, they've died or fled to Prospit! But here we are! Trying to help the destitute without any skin off our noses!”

“Because threat of death is 'no skin off our noses.'”

“It's not like the Condesce is going to-! To kill all humans, all white humans because we pissed her off, she'll kill us ourselves and then genocide a whole bunch of-!” You fumble. “Not humans!”

“So I should just stop?” Dirk stands before you, stance strong, brow furrowed, nowhere close to losing his temper. “You realize that I'm not the sole organizer of this entire operation. There were people running it before I got here, and there are going to be people here to run it if I leave.”

“So?! At least you won't be involved! At least you, you condescending, you condescending white. Human. Man, you won't be telling a bunch of other people what to do!”

He frowns. “Are you drinking?”

Your mouth opens wide. “What? No!!”

He walks towards you, reaching out. “Are you sure? You're slurring-”

You swat him away. “I'm not slurring, I'm _stuttering_ because I'm not some perfectly eloquent statue person like you, there's a difference!” You bury your hands in your hair. “Don't-! Don't ever use my alcohol problem, which is _entirely_ in the past, to delegitimize what I'm trying to say!”

Dirk opens his arms. “Roxy, I don't think I can delegitimize what you're trying to say because I don't actually know what it is that you're trying to say.”

“No! I'm not perfectly coherent, but you can definitely tell that what I'm trying to say is that you're a spoiled boy who can never understand what it's like to be a lowblood or a pawn or a poor person or, or even a Dersite!” You can't read your brother's face. Your grievances keep coming. “We didn't grow up here when it got to its worst, Dirk! You don't know what it's like... You don't have a right to speak for others!”

He raises a hand, and, to your chagrin, you find your voice dies away. “You're angry at me,” he says. “Because you've been forced to leave your food charity behind. Roxy, I'm sorry-”

“No!” you shout. “No, that's not it at all, that's not all I'm mad at you about! You're, you're running this thing all wrong!”

“And _you_ know how to fix it?” His expression is suddenly weary. “Roxy. You don't work for this organization. You're never involved except on the fringes.”

You pout. “Sometimes I end up in the middle of a battle.”

“Yes, accidentally. Because this city is so entrenched in anarchy that it's nearly impossible to escape the bloodshed.”

“ _Dirk-”_

“Roxy.”

He puts his hands on your shoulders. Again, the urge to pull him forward, to hit him, to kiss him, to choke him. You snarl, “Let go of me, you fucking ass!” You wrestle yourself out of his grip.

He frowns at you. “You've been starting fights with me all of the time lately.”

“Because I'm unhappy!” you shout, waving your arms in askance. “I'm unhappy with this... fucking fighting moving my life around and murdering my friends – last week, when that building blew up, and those soldiers attacked me, a kid died! A fucking kid I talked to and fed _died_ and excuse me if I'm tired of hearing about this or that childhood friend's remains and that beloved person's disappearance!”

Dirk doesn't try to touch you again. “The only way it'll stop is if we succeed in taking the Condesce down. That's all we're trying to do, that's all that matters. The aid programs, the attempts to police neighborhoods, it's all just part of a bigger picture. I don't know how you can possibly disagree with a goal like that.”

He turns and walks away. You glare after him. The truth is, you really don't know anymore why you keep having this argument with him. It just feels like something you have to do. Like you have to keep... _something_ from happening.

He irritates you, and he's different from the person you used to be so close to, but he's still your brother. You don't want him to end up face down in some ditch, with his name either fading on the tongues of the people or emblazoned for centuries to come in the history books. You want him alive, with you, as mechanic and unfeeling as he is.

→

Even when you find time to detach yourself from Dirk's violent world and escape to the safety of Nepeta's home (a feat you are finding harder and harder as time passes), his name is on everyone's lips. They call him a _prince_ and speak his name with the fear and disdain and the _respect_ you expect to hear towards one. 

Your lip curls whenever you see them. Nepeta hisses to you, behind a fisherman's cart on the boardwalk, “Don't make that face; you already stand out as a human, they might confront you if they see you reacting that way to their empress's greatest enemy.” But that's not it, you want to say. That's not it at all.

But you don't try to explain it to her; you can tell, just by the taste of the words as you let them dissolving in your mouth, that they these are traitorous thoughts. Because that's what the refusal to adore a leader unquestioningly is to a militant like Dirk, isn't it? You could never be a soldier in his makeshift civilian army. You think too much for yourself (and have far too many personal feelings culminating in a disdain for the leader).

→

“I-I'm sorry I didn't see it coming Dirk, I-”

“Rose, it's okay. It's not your fault.”

“No, but... what use am I, if I can't even predict a raid of this _magnitude?_ ”

“It still isn't your fault.”

“I just... I feel so useless.”

“You _aren't._ Come here.”

Maybe you'll verbally attack Dirk later, when your mother isn't having a breakdown. You turn away from the paper-thin door and head back to your room.

→

The barest cracks of moonlight make it through the boards on your window and seem to mark the wall like white wounds. You blink, groggy. Something woke you up.

You sit up. It takes a while until you can see the outlines of boxes with clothes spilling out, the spot of wall where the paper is peeling in a strip so large it makes your fingers itch to tear it off. Across from you, there is a cushion, and blankets thrown back, and no older brother.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and head out into the hall, where the lights are all off. The only sounds in the house are the even breaths that come with sleep, but you come to stop before the kitchen, where the window has been wrenched open, and your brother is poised to leave.

He looks over his shoulder at you. He gestures for you to be quiet with a finger to his pursed lips.

You sigh. “Dirk. Where are you going?”

He lowers himself from the windowsill. “I won't be gone long.”

You stare steadily into his eyes. “Dirk.”

After a moment, he relents. He drops his gaze. “I miss him. I haven't seen him in months.”

It takes you a minute to process this. “Wait - you're not sneaking out to assassinate anyone?”

He gives a small, almost inaudible laugh. “No. I wouldn't have to avoid waking our parents for that... or at least, I wouldn't have to worry about using the front door to leave, and alerting the guards posted out front.”

You wrap your arms around your chest. “How... how do you plan on meeting him?”

“Well. I'm going to slip past the guys downstairs, steal our neighbor's horse, and ride out to a predetermined meeting place.”

He didn't say where. “When do you plan to be back?”

He lifts his gaze from the floor. “Why? Do you plan on letting me go?”

You hesitate before answering. “I can't... control you, can I?”

“You could call the guards. Tell them I'm risking my life to do something stupid and selfish.”

“It's not stupid,” you mumble. “Well – maybe a little. But it's for love, you know?”

You look at each other for a little while. No talking, no glaring. Just quiet understanding.

“Go to him,” you say. “While you're still feeling human.”

His face screws up at that. “What does that mean?”

You shrug. “This is the most... romantic, selfish thing I've seen you do in forever. I was starting to think you'd been replaced with a... an unfeeling, homunculus lookalike.”

You reach out your hand. After a second or two he takes it and squeezes it meaningfully. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I'll be back by midday tomorrow at the latest, I swear.”

You frown. “Our parents will notice...”

He's looking at you with eyes wide, begging. Extraordinary – you really haven't seen him like this in a very long while. You relent. “I'll cover for you. But you have until twelve – then we're coming to look for you.”

His smile is wide. Swiftly, catching you off guard, he tugs you into a quick embrace. “Thank you, Roxy,” he whispers. “Thank you so much.” When you part, you smile at him uncomfortably. Touching him makes your skin crawl, but the fact he's willing to embrace you is a good sign.

From the window, you watch him. You watch him disappear down the fire escape, watch him dart across the yard in the darkness, listen for the stirring of the guards poised to protect your family. You think you hear the faint clopping of horse's hooves. After a long bout of darkness and silence, you leave the window.

Your chest feels light. Dirk's still Dirk. He still wants things, he's still a human being. And he's still your brother.

You head back to bed, smiling despite everything. There'll be hell to pay in the morning. You two are bound by this secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what happens to diiiiiiiiirk (hint: it spawned a 12 chapter fic that can be found on my profile)


	22. Act 4, Part 3: Heiress of Rot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to apologize for the lack of update last Friday; it just completely slipped my mind. I'd also like to apologize for not replying to several comments yet; the anonymity of the internet doesn't really relieve my social anxiety, so while I'm squealing inside, utterly thrilled at the things you've all written to me, I'm slow to reply out of worry that my thanks won't be 100% perfect.
> 
> Next, I'd like to point out that there is only 1 more finished chapter left for me to post after this one - which will come out at a random time, maybe this Friday, maybe next Wednesday, basically whenever I remember to post it - and then the fic will be going on a short hiatus. Emphasis on short! I probably won't get to write again until my 2 week spring break in early March, but hey, it's already mid-February! And I have an incredibly detailed outline for this fic. *Almost* everything you've read so far was planned in advance, if not exactly from day one. Stories always diverge from their intended track, but trust me when I say the last chapters are going to be written, and I will absolutely not abandon this fic.
> 
> One of the reasons I can't write before or after spring break, though, is that my chemistry grade is utter shit, so I'm going to be blocking AO3, tumblr, and a bunch of other websites on a daily basis until I get myself back to a complacent B minus.
> 
> Anyway! I love you all, your kudos and comments and pageviews keep me motivated, and I hope you enjoy chapter 22! Something Rotten's last chapters are going to be mightily fast-paced...

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Three: Heiress of Rot

* * *

 

You are jarred awake by hands on your shoulders and your mother's frantic face in front of yours. You are disoriented with sleep, yet you know, even before she speaks, the source of her dismay.

It's still early in the morning. He has time to return, but staying calm is becoming difficult; your mother's anxiety is contagious. There are men in the kitchen, the same ones posted out front last night to protect your family, the ones who should probably be replaced because they didn't even notice your brother sneaking out and then riding away on horseback. (But then, Dirk is the leader of a revolution. He's a master of stealth.)

“No signs of a struggle,” the bigger guy says.

“And we've canvassed the whole house,” adds the other, with a brisk nod to your father. You think he probably only used that phrase to sound like he knew what he was doing. This whole incident will certainly make them look bad, once it gets back to headquarters.

Your parents ask when the last time was that you saw Dirk, and you hesitate to answer. “Um, last night.” It isn't a lie. You change the subject because you don't know what else to do. “When'd you notice he was missing?”

“This morning, around six. You didn't hear him leave? You do share a room...”

You shrug. And shake your head. And shrug. “No, I. I'm a deep sleeper.”

“If she didn't wake up, there probably wasn't a fight,” Dave interjects. “Maybe he left of his own accord.”

“Without telling _any_ of us?”

The shorter of the two guards looks crestfallen. “Well... we aren't high ranking like he is. Maybe he's off doing high profile stuff. Maybe we're not at liberty to know what he's doing.”

Your mother shoots him a look that has him withering like a flower in the sun. “Again, I ask – without telling any of us? Without at least implying that he had to go, but couldn't tell us exactly why?”

“I'm sure he'll turn up, Mom,” you say, quietly. “It's Dirk. He can hold his own.”

She turns to you. Her eyes aren't blazing, but they aren't soft, either. “There are hundreds of people out there hunting for him.” She turns her gaze back on the men. “How am I supposed to remain calm, knowing that?”

Your dad comes up and carefully puts a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn't shake it off, he says, “Rose, Roxy's right. Dirk's a wily kid, he's avoided all those pursuers so far. Let's not panic until we know for sure he didn't just... step out.”

After some huffing and puffing, your mother relents. You don't blame her for being so upset, but you wish she'd calm down, if only so _you_ could calm down.

→

By two o'clock in the afternoon, you reach a kind of nirvana, an ultimate, terrifying level of inner stillness. The reason you reach such a state of being is because you had already started panicking heavily at noon, and continued to do so until you were too mentally exhausted to continue.

Dirk still hasn't returned. Your parents want to report the update in person, and you are given the option of joining your parents on their trip to the resistance headquarters or of staying behind with the newest set of guards deployed to sweep the area and watch over your family.

You decide to accompany your parents. Not just because you want to be in the company of loved ones during this stressful time, but because you're debating whether or not to come clean.

You were the last one to see Dirk. You let him go, you promised to cover for him. Last night it felt like, for the first time in ages, that you two were close again. That you had reached an understanding. And now – now he might be captured by the enemy, or otherwise hurt, or. Or dead. And it'll be all your fault.

You didn't even make him tell you where he was going. God, you always told Dirk that he didn't know how to account for the unthinkable, that he wasn't careful enough – what about you? Do you _ever_ think ahead?

As your parents drag you swiftly through darkened alleys and shady establishments, making their way as carefully as possible to one of the resistance's secret bases, you see your father lean in to whisper to your mother, hear him say say, _she's in shock._ They both look at you. You try to smile at them in reassurance, but your mouth only twitches.

Rose sighs. “We shouldn't have let you come.”

Dave shrugs. “Too late to send her back now.” His attempts to smile are slightly more encouraging than yours. “It's okay, Roxy. We're almost there. Try to hold it together until then.”

By the time you reach the base with your parents, you are stumbling where they lead you, and your breathing comes in erratic bursts. Your mind is a whirr of _Dirk_ and _my fault_ and _please, please, please walk through that door, any minute now,_ please.

The next few hours are like a nightmare. Dirk never shows up. As you hug your knees in a room that is warm and quiet and terribly lonely, you hear some pawns outside the door say that your father has issued orders to sweep the city and listen out for whether Dirk has been captured by the empress.

“All this work, for one guy,” one of them mutters.

“Shh! Don't stir up any trouble right now, you know it'll get us killed.”

“Yeah, because disagreeing with the majority is illegal now. Forgot our so-called resistance has started to warp into a fucking fascist sect.”

You cover your ears. If that guy doesn't shut up, someone other than you will definitely hear him, and he might not die, but... Except you don't actually know that, you don't know what this organization is like, he could very well be killed for speaking against the mysterious stranger who has taken your brother's form.

You lean forward until your face is buried in your knees. Darkness, quiet – oblivion. When you were kids and you were scared or sad, you and Dirk would hide in the dark quiet together and not move, a pair of wild animals cloaked in night, hiding from the predator that threatened to strike you both down. You can still feel the softness of the the sheets, see the breadth of the rooms in that Prospitian mansion, the giant curtains swept over door-sized windows, the sound of night and crickets and the feel of wind brushing through your hair as you waited for the crunch of leaves, the tell-tale signs of approach...

You weren't raised religious. Even as Feferi taught you to use the Old Language and to respect the elder gods who are supposedly the power source of all grimdark users, you never really believed all that. You were never dismissive of the scientific basis of magic like your mom and dad, either. And with Karkat, visiting the chapel of the Signless, you couldn't help but wonder how worshipping that guy was anything like worshipping a god, and any different from just really, really admiring a mortal model of peace and resistance.

You've never thought about the existence of some higher power all that deeply, but now, from the very core of your being, you beseech it: please, you ask it. Please. Please let your brother be okay.

→

Days pass, and there is no word on Dirk's whereabouts. There aren't even rumors of his capture by the enemy; if anything, it's like he just vanished. You are so overcome with guilt that you feel like your insides are going to rupture. You are so afraid to face people and lie and be found out, or to tell the truth and risk being attacked for not coming clean sooner.

You don't want to get out of bed. But you push the feeling down, and join in on the search instead. Your parents are worried about you, but you assure them you're okay, you can handle whatever search assignment is handed to you. And because you don't have the training most of these guys get, you don't have big assignments: you look around your brother's favorite public haunts, careful to keep a cowl over your hair. You wear dark lipstick and – you look like your mom, in that family-resemblance kind of way, but you don't look like yourself. You put on eye shadow, make yourself stand out so nobody once thinks, hey, isn't that the prince's kid sister? It's not like that many people know that you exist, anyway, but it's good, to take these precautions.

Your attempts at finding your brother start out with you waiting around and watching out for others while they gather information, acting as look-out for soldiers. Slowly, though, you find yourself seated in inns, leaning against walls and making small talk, giggling and batting your lashes at the few human boys worthy enough to wear a badge, relishing at their dark blushes and the way you can get these wanna-be-men to spill the latest in whatever information minor soldiers like them are privy to. You devote every ounce of labor but not a single use of your physical body to finding Dirk, because – because no matter how much you feel responsible, he'd be angry, if you did something that got you hurt.

Somewhere around the second week he's gone, you say, with shaking voice, “What about Jake?”

Your mother frowns at you, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Well... has anyone checked with him? To see if he's seen Dirk-?”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head as you are swept up and spun around, away from your mother, lips on your head. You sputter in shock as your father whoops, “Roxy, you should be running this damn operation!”

There's a giddy feeling in your chest. There: you put what little information you have out there, and it's a base that hasn't been covered, and maybe soon this nightmare is going to end. It's good, because your sources in the city are running dry, and people are starting to notice, that the prince hasn't been spotted in ages. “We think he's planning something big,” one scrawny, tan-skinned boy tells you. “I mean, why else would he be laying low?”

Later, the mayor looks at you in awe. “Someone actually _said_ that to you? Roxy, that's... that's _huge._ ” And soon, others are able to corroborate what you've gathered: there are multiple sources saying that the enemy has no idea Dirk has disappeared from his own movement, think his inactivity is a sign of a big movement to come.

“Don't celebrate _just yet,_ ” a troll leader warns. Everyone crammed into the base is getting rowdy with excitement at the realization that their disadvantage hasn't been identified yet. “All our sources are small-time soldiers. Police, basically. Not the big guns. For all we know, keeping them ignorant is part of the plan to keep _us_ unawares.”

“Well, then it's good we got you around to presume the worst,” Dave says, slapping her on the back. He ignores the yellow eyes that narrow at him. “We'll keep cautious.”

Still, as the pawn and troll and human sects long united under Dirk continually point out, even without Dirk, there is a war going on. You actually have to cancel a reconnaissance because one of the buildings you planned to scope out gets bombed with a powerful magic that renders the entire block's atmosphere heavy and toxic-smelling. There are reports of those who live nearby experiencing hemorrhaging and vomiting blood.

In light of this news, your mother's face gets pale. “They're getting more powerful,” she mutters. “More daring...”

She wanders to the nearest bookshelf and you follow, watching as she pulls volumes from the shelves. “Her Condesce's lusus, before it was eaten alive by that... parasitic, monstrous disease that killed the lusii, it was an elder god.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You mean it was a gigantic, tentacled beast?”

Your mother sighs. “Yes. And whether you believe in their supposed ability to pass judgement on mortals or not – which, I'm a bad seer, you know I don't. When the world was young and the ocean was crawling with those things, destroying boats and murdering sea-goers, it makes sense, that superstitious peoples came to believe those creatures could control the very sway of the universe, since their own world was very much at their mercy... Anyway, the point is, true gods or not, the horrorterrors were highly magic creatures. Their blood, their voices, their very bones can power spells and potions unlike any other ingredients derived from any other plant or animal. Because of the fact that they pass down the same eldritch lusus to every new girl, sometimes sharing its patronage, every member of the Peixes lineage has been an infinitely powerful witch.”

Okay. That's interesting and all, but, “I don't get what you're trying to say, Mom.”

She sighs at you. “I'm saying that the empress is teaching her magic-using followers some powerful, dangerous magics. The likes of which none but the most powerful and privileged magic users ever have a chance to learn. And she's using them against us.”

She continues flipping through the book. Like all other magic books, it is old, dusty, and peeling at the edges. She squints at the page. “If only there were some easy way out. One... one _big_ spell, a summons, maybe, something we could use to fight back...”

She sighs, slamming the book shut. “No matter. The books we have here won't help me. I need to find rarer volumes.” She tosses her veil over her head. “Hold down the fort for me, Roxy. If your father asks, tell him I've gone shopping in the shadier regions of town, and I don't need an escort because I can hold my own, thank you very much.”

She can already see her father's snappy reply. _Dirk would've said the same thing!_ “Okay, Mom. Be careful.”

→

Three weeks after Dirk's disappearance, and about one week after your suggestion about Jake, a party of humans and mid-tier trolls returns from Prospit with grave faces. They enter the base, the massive doors closing behind them, and do not even make a move to dismount their horses before they start relaying what they know.

“We did not find the prince,” says one man. “We did not pick up any leads. When we got to the prescribed location, there was no Jake English – his mother said she had not seen him in as long as we had seen our prince, and was in the process of getting together a search party.”

“We helped,” adds a woman. “Hence why it took us so long to return. We were hoping that, maybe if they succeeded in finding this English fellow, we would also find Dirk, or at least be able to interrogate him if he was found alone, but...”

“There was no trace of either of them,” the man finished. “We left some people behind to aid in the search, and to keep us informed if any new information regarding either man comes to light.”

Your breath hitches. Jake is gone, too. It _has_ to be connected. God, you feel sick. So Dirk isn't the only one being directly affected by this rendezvous. And now that you know Jake's gone, that means even more people are going to be hurt by this and – even your beloved Jane and – oh _Jade_ , Jade will hate you _forever_ because you let her son –

No. No one knows you were the last person to see Dirk. You should... you should tell, but, but you're afraid. You had no idea where Jake and Dirk were going to meet, but you know people are going to be angry with you because you let him go, fuck you're so _stupid_ for letting him go!

Shoving your panic down, you peek out from between your fingers to catch a glimpse of your parents' expressions. Your father's face is grim. Your mother's face is grim. _You_ feel as if you are about to crumble to pieces, but they look... resigned.

“So there's nothing,” Dave says. “No leads at all.”

Your heart clenches. You wobble on your feet, but then there are arms from either side steadying you – both of your parents. They are hyper-attuned to you, their only child.

“Not quite.” One member of the search party clears his throat. “When we searched the English boy's house, there were the remains of a letter, torn up, but clearly from Dirk. From what we could reconstruct, it seems they meant to meet each other, in a place they merely called 'the halfway point'.” The man gestures, and another person in the party reaches into her rucksack and pulls out an envelope, handing it to your father. He looks at the package with awe.

“There are some vague descriptions, if you look closely,” the woman says. “We think they might have met somewhere in the stretch of forest on the Derse-Prospit border.”

Your heart leaps. Hope. Oh, god, finally, some real hope.

“The chances that he'd still be in the vicinity after this long are slim,” your father says. His grip on the envelope is tight. “But I'll organize a party... No. Me, Rose, and our kid are going to ride out and do a rough sweep of the area, first thing tomorrow. Mayor? You take my command post while I'm gone.” The carapace man bobs his head in understanding.

You are taken aback. “Me? Why are you taking me along?”

Your father turns to you with a smirk. “Because! Believe it or not, you've proved an excellent agent the past few weeks. I need the best of the best with me, and I need people who know Dirk like nobody else.”

Your mother and a few of the returning party protest at the thought of a group of three setting out alone, but your father insists, with others to back him up, that a heavily monitored area like the country's border is too dangerous a place to bring a big party of resisters. “I know the forest is deep and secluded, but it's still a border. You don't think people don't try to hop the wall all the time, to get to Prospit illegally? The place will have plenty of soldiers running around.”

“Why on earth would Dirk choose such a place to meet in secret?” your mother says, with only half-hearted irritation.

“The thrill of it?” you guess. It does seem odd. But then, for all of his attempts to appear cool and rational, sometimes Dirk truly prefers the most convoluted way of doing things.

Things are looking up – maybe you'll get to scold him for his recklessness again soon.

→

Once, a resistance leader asked if you'd be comfortable seducing people for information, and your mother punched him so hard he barely recovered before your father grabbed him and hauled him violently to his feet. Quietly, to hide the shock in your voice, you said that you wouldn't mind a little bit of flirting. Secretly, you hoped that your parents' sudden violence had made it clear that you would not be going any farther than that.

Your parents protested even at the thought of your flirting, and you scowled, and said you were fourteen, very nearly fifteen, that, for their information, you had already dated. Then there was a moment of quiet, as your parents were reminded that there were years of your life they had missed.

Still, your mother insisted, “You're still not an adult,” and you laughed, and replied, “Well I'm not gonna... _do it_ with anybody, or let myself get alone with any strange people or nothing.”

Today, however, just as your family is making its last preparations before you search for your brother, she brings it up again. Tightly packing food and weapons into what few, small bags you are able to carry on this journey, your mother says, “Our lives are far from... normal. Let's have a normal conversation, before we embark on yet another not-so-normal campaign.”

You look up from your breakfast. “Yeah? Don't you normally have to introduce, like, an actual topic to have a conversation, though?”

She rolls her eyes at your sass. “You said you've dated, before. It occurs to me I never even bothered to ask the details of your love life.”

Your face heats up, and, fumbling, you stuff as much food as you can into your mouth, nearly causing yourself to choke. Rose raises an eyebrow at the spectacle you're making of yourself. “Or, if you're uncomfortable-”

“No! No, no, it's just, 'love-life' is... Is so... Such a _word_.”

Her darkly painted lips quirk. God, you hope your foundation is thick enough she can't see how flustered this is making you. You feel like such a child, getting riled up, but...

“I don't... have that much of a love 'life' to report,” you say, complete with air quotes. “I liked a lot of boys... Almost _all_ of the boys, really...” Dirk flashes in your mind's eye and you shove his image away, shuddering to yourself.

“Any official boyfriends?” your mother asks, no hint of mockery in the smooth lines of her lips, the softness of her gaze. You blush, not in humiliation, but at the reminder of your past romances.

“No,” you say. Then you hesitate, although if asked why, you couldn't entirely explain why you struggled to admit to the next part. “But... I did have a girlfriend.”

“Oh?” She smiles at you. “So did I, back in the day.” _I know,_ you think. Your mother goes back to folding clothes as small as she can before packing them expertly with many items that, had you packed them, would not have fit together. Mothers...

“What was she like, Roxy?”

“Huh? Oh, uh. She was older than me, and pretty... pretty, and she had lots of piercings... Tasteful ones! It was totally a cultural thing, so you _have_ to respect it. Um... she was really interested in, like, women's rights...”

“What was her name?” your mother asks.

Again. The hesitation. The indefinable apprehension. “...Porrim. Porrim Maryam.”

Your mother pauses in her ministrations. Only briefly, but you see it, the way her fingers skip. “...Oh? A relation to Kanaya...?”

“Yes.”

Your mom's face looks weird for a second but then she nods, and smiles. “Good. The Maryams are good people.” She finishes packing. Then, “...Kanaya was my girlfriend, you know.”

You nod. “I do. Your only one, right?”

“Yes. And I loved her! I truly did. There was no lack of connection between us, in any... any way. We were totally compatible. There's not any particular reason why I never dated a woman ever again, other than the fact it was more difficult, I think, for humans to get away with that, and my parents didn't like me romancing...”

“Girls?”

She smirks. “Or trolls. You and your brother have had an incredibly open-minded upbringing.”

You nod. She's sharing so much with you. You feel like you should give something back, to be fair, and so you admit, “Most of my crushes have been on boys. So far Porrim's really my only girl.”

She laughs. The sound is weird. “How like me! And your only girl is a Maryam.” She pauses. “We... we are so alike , romantically. Just. Not too alike, I hope.”

Her last comment renders your tongue a dead thing. You can feel it in between the lines of her speech – acknowledging without shaping, in explicit detail, what she means. That vague truth that keeps dancing between people's teeth, careful to keep clear of tongues.

You wonder. “Yeah,” you say. And that's all you say. But you see the way your mother bristles, and you wish you could take it back, but – but what would someone who had no idea say? No, no, mom, don't be silly? Or, what are you talking about?

Your mother takes a sharp breath into her nose. “Well,” she says. “Without Dirk here, we won't really have to worry about that, will we?”

And, like in every badly written novel you've ever hungrily read by wand-light, your jaw literally drops. “Wh... why, why would you say _that_?!”

She looks at you. Her eyes are crinkled and her lips are smooth and you can't read her, what the hell is her expression supposed to mean, is she, is she being spiteful, is she-?

“I know you know, Roxy,” she says. “Karkat told me, ages ago. I'm sorry that you and your brother found out the way you did. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you myself. But I don't see why we can't joke about-”

Your chair comes crashing to the floor, and your mother's eyebrows disappear swiftly beneath her blond bangs, her eyes widening like saucers to reveal the shock you both feel at your angry outburst.

“ _Joke?!_ Implying that I'd ever... That's your idea of a fucking joke?”

“Roxy-”

“Don't touch me!” You physically swat her hand away and she recoils. “Don't say that shit to me! Don't you fucking say that shit to me, don't you dare joke about something that was so traumatizing to me! Do you have any idea what it was like to, to...”

Her face crumples. “Roxy, I'm sorry, I just... I was so tired, of dancing around it, and I thought, if I made light...”

“You made light of _me!_ ” you snap. “You implied something so rotten, you... you implied _I_ was rotten _-_ ”

“Roxy, _no_ -”

“Is everybody okay in here?”

Your father materializes in the doorway, something thrown over his shoulder. Your mother turns away, wiping her face. You can feel it in the clench of your hands, the square of your shoulders, that you look every bit the aggressor.

You turn and head for the door. “We need to go. It'll take hours to get to the border, we want to ride while it's still dark.”

You go out into the sunless morning before your father can protest. You hear your mother deflect his questions and attempts to comfort, and soon, both parents join you. Dave doesn't bother you, nor does Rose, and within minutes, you've all saddled your horses and adjusted your bags without making eye contact. With a nod to the east, your father points, kicks his horse into motion, and you all follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im laughing a bit at this chapter because roxys under th impression that she's more likely to end up with a dude, but that isn't the case. In the next/final fic in this series, she's gonna romance somebody it makes more sense in canon for her to romance... the second main character of that final fic, who has yet to appear at all in this entire series........


	23. Act 4, Part 4: Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the last update you're all getting until I can start writing in March, when I finally get a break from college. 
> 
> See you in the spring! Hope with all your heart that I can finish most of the 6 final chapters in two weeks, or Something Rotten won't conclude until May or June! Damn the pre-med workload...

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Four: Monsters

* * *

 

 

Your head throbs. Smells and sensations utterly alien to the situation you expected to find yourself in assault you. Laboriously, you open an eye to fuzzy white light and green, everywhere.

Your vision adjusts. Grass tickles your face. The sun shines down from the trees and you hear the chirps of birds. Slowly, you get your hands under yourself and push, hoping to get yourself into a sitting position. The pain in your head protests this line of action, but you keep pushing until you're at least somewhat upright. You rub your head, idly picking pieces of grass and twigs from your hair as you look at your surroundings.

A forest. Probably the same forest you hoped, with your parents, to search for Dirk in. You push yourself to stand, pausing to lean on a tree after the effort.

Parents. Your first priority. You gather your senses and start the search for them, all the while keeping one ear open for sounds of approach. You have to be prepared for whoever – or whatever – being discovered alone here may entail.

Guiding yourself with a hand always against a tree, you make your way around the area. You find your mother face down in the grass some distance away, behind a boulder and a desiccated tree trunk. You immediately drop down to your knees to shake her and feel for a pulse, and she starts to stir, raising her head from the dirt with a groggy expression.

When she's dusted off, she asks what happened. “I don't know,” you say, offering her a hand so you can help her stand up. She takes it. “Let's find Dad first.”

It doesn't take long. He's a little farther away than either of you, but calling his name eventually prompts him to lift his head so you both see him, and are able to run to his side.

Your mother starts picking leaves out of your and your father's hair. “Where the fuck are we?” Dave grumbles, swiveling his head so that her hands struggle to keep up. “Is this the border forest?”

You shrug. “The last thing I remember, that's where we were headed. And Derse isn't exactly a forest-friendly terrain, so there's little elsewhere we can be.”

Dave pulls away from your mother to march forwards, and backwards, swiftly looking around. “...I can't remember a thing.”

“Me neither,” says Rose. “I only barely remember arriving, but nothing after that.”

Your dad curses, kicking something that skitters only a short distance away. “Fucking traitors. They set us up, didn't they? The Prospit search party.”

You watch your mother's fingers light on her temple. “You think it was them?”

Dave snorts. “Of course I think it was them! They probably left us here for dead. We'll be lucky if we find any trace of our supplies or our horses... god _damn_ it!”

He kicks a tree stump. You clear your throat. “At least we're _alive..._ ”

Your mother's still stroking her temple. “What do you suppose they did to us? I can't find a wound. I think... magic must have been involved, somehow. I can Feel it.”

You imagine the word capitalized because of the tone with which she says it. That tone usually means her mystical seer-powers are doing their work.

“...Should we search this place anyway?” you query.

Your dad sighs, and scratches his neck. “...I don't know. Maybe we should see if we can find our stuff first.” He starts walking, stops. Hesitates. Then starts walking in a different direction. Your mother makes as if to follow, but he tells you all to split up.

You shake your head. “No. We already paid for traveling in such a small group, we might as well stick together to make sure whatever fucked with our heads isn't still out here.”

“Your daughter's right. We need all the eyes we can right now on the lookout for our safety.”

Dave gives a tight nod. “Yes. Okay. Well, let's. Let's go.” He reaches instinctively by his side and his fingers find nothing but fabric – no sword, of course. Whoever left you all here seems to have covered about every base except making sure you all were actually dead. Curious.

You make your way through the forest. It feels familiar – like a story your mother told you when you were a child. About people getting lost in the forest, meeting fairies, transforming beyond recognition... You wish you could remember the name, a sharper outline of the faces you used to place to the now nebulous names, but there are other things to worry about right now. Your eyes scan the tangle of roots and leaves for burlap or metal. Manmade products.

There's whinnying in the distance. Your first instinct is to rush towards it but you stop yourself. It might be your attackers, returned. Your family ducks into the shadows until eventually a horse emerges, face wild, reigns flapping, saddle empty and sliding down its side. Your father leaps out from the brush to calm it, almost getting himself kicked before your mother emerges as well. She succeeds in calming the creature down, then turns to you both inquisitively. “I recognize this horse as the one the resistance loaned me for this little excursion,” she says. “Meaning the others might be around here somewhere.”

She mounts the horse and leads you and your father through the forest like a queen leading her subjects. Eventually, the trees fall away, but they never reveal the fate of the other two horses, nor of your supplies. You come out into the sunlight with barely anything in your possession but the clothes on your backs.

Your father runs his hands over his eyes. “We're not equipped to search for Dirk. We're barely equipped to get back to the base. We should camp out here tonight and return by darkness, but we've barely got anything...”

“You were at war, weren't you?” you say. “Can't you extrapolate your people-killing skills to hunt for animals?”

He bristles at that. Your mother cuts in. “I know how to start a fire,” she says. “And, if possible, I know enough about plant-life to pick out a meal, if not a terribly delicious or plentiful one.”

So the Striders decide to regroup, and head for the border when night hits. In the meantime, Dave's going to get a feel for the area, and you join Rose to prepare the fire and search for nuts and things. You're all feeling mightily ravenous – more than you should. You've only been asleep for a few hours. You tie the horse up to a low-hanging branch and then join your mother where she's planning to build a fire.

You find out that when she said she knew how to start a fire, she literally meant with sticks, not magic. You frown at her efforts. She's calm about her failure to get it the first time, but you get frustrated enough to make up for her zen. “No, Mom, here-”

Neither of you have a wand on your person, meaning this is a bit reckless for you to do. Your power will be wild, not concentrated, and you're feeling irritable and hungry, which will only make it worse. But you can _not_ wait around forever for some stupid sticks to spark...

You hold your hands over the pile of dry sticks your father brought to you. Gesturing to your mother to step back, you concentrate: old language. Let's see. You need the word for fire, you add it by that pronunciation to the word for stick, multiply it by that emphasis to the concept of heat, and word order, what is word order...

A violet flame rears up to your height and then, with some panicked commands on your part, dies back down to a reasonable size. Your rub your hands irritably, worried your may have burnt them a little, but proud that you've moved this cooking fire thing along faster than your mom would've.

“I've made sure it won't produce a smoke,” you say, absently rubbing your palm. It stings, a little, but you'll be okay. “Probably good – have you seen grimdark smoke? I did, a few times, during street fires the soldiers started. It's terrifying! There are fucking demonic faces in it and shit. Yeah, so point being, we won't attract any attention in broad daylight.” You turn to find your mother sprawled, likely from the shock of the fire appearing so quickly, her eyes and mouth wide. She shuts her mouth when she sees your look, starts to adjust herself so she's less disheveled, more her demure self, but you can tell she's still startled.

“Roxy,” she utters. “That was _powerful.”_

You wince. “Oh, yeah – sorry about that. I was getting kind of annoyed, so I lost my temper with it. Are you hur-”

“No!” your mother interrupts. “I mean. _You're_ powerful.”

You shrug. “It's just a fire.”

“Y-yes, a... a light-producing, smokeless fire, I can see that!” She looks at your, incredulously. “How long has it been, since you last used magic?”

You think about it. “I don't know. Like, purposefully, not for months. The last usage, period, was when I got those soldiers to literally stop pursuing me and all those people.”

Your mother opens and closes her mouth a few times. She wants to say something, but then your father emerges from the brush, more wood in his hands.

“Purple – fashionable,” he snorts when he sees the fire. He tosses the wood in and the fire licks it up hungrily.

Your mother gives you a look. “What do I have to do to convince you you're a talented magic user?”

You make a noncommittal gesture, a combination between a shrug and a wince. “I don't know. Overcome the fact I'm shit at the Old Language and always doing stuff wrong.”

“That's when you were a _child,_ Roxy, you were just learning, but you've _evolved_ by now, you've awakened-”

“Is Rox doing crazy magicky stuff again?” Dave asks, grinning. You push past him, getting out of the vicinity of the fire, away from your parents. You desperately hope the sun will fall soon so that your family can finally ride back to the capital. “Whatever. Forget it. Let's just focus on finding something to eat, I feel like I'm going to die if I don't get something soon.”

Your dad makes some stupid remark about hunger making the crappiest of food taste good, but you don't pay attention, not really. You're hyperaware of your mother's movements, her lurking about your creation with which she is so impressed. But – but fucking children, who have just learned magic can make a stupid fire! You've been producing light at the end of your wand since you were in primary school, it's not that big of a deal!

Really. She ought to know not to get your hopes up.

→

Your meal consists of some pathetic nuts and berries. It's hardly enough to distract you for the hours it takes to get dark; by twilight, you are antsy, dying to head home.

When it's finally dark enough that your parents deem it time to sneak back into the city, they allow you use of the horse. You want to take turns, but they insist. You suggest you can ride back, return to them with horses, but Dave won't trust the resistance now. He thinks they'll kill you and return to finish the job on him and Rose.

The journey is much longer on foot than it was when all three of you were on horseback. Thankfully, you all reach an inn before it grows light, and its owner is willing to take the horse in exchange for letting your family stay there. You all sleep away the daylight before you embark again on the shortest leg of the trip.

Your parents bid you stay with Nepeta while they go to confront the resistance, and when you arrive at her home is when you receive the first bit of disorienting news.

It is one day later than any of you thought it was. Meaning when you awoke in the forest, you had been unconscious there for not the hours it took from night to turn to midday, but for more than twenty-four hours. You stumble and clutch at the nearest sturdy thing, which happens to be Equius's arm. You cringe at the sheen of sweat transferred to your arm, and Nepeta quickly gathers you into her arms, begging you to explain what happened.

“I-I don't know, it just... it seems like we were left to die. We woke up, robbed, without any memory of what happened. My dad thinks it may've been members of the resistance who did that to us.”

Nepeta's hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, Roxy, why would your friends _do_ that to you?”

Allies are not the same as friends, you think. “W-well, now that Dirk's gone, I'm sure people are desperate to take over... And, I mean, it took _him_ to unite all those different revolutionary factions... Maybe without him, they're starting to get restless again, and remember why they didn't want to work with each other in the first place.”

Equius stutters for a good half a minute before he settles on exclaiming, “So now the empress's followers _and_ the resistance will come knocking down our door in search of you!”

Nepeta shoots him a look that could kill a small dog. “ _Equius._ ”

“This girl is putting us in-”

“Nepeta,” you gasp, “please, can you get me something to eat, I-I haven't had a real meal in more than three days. We ate nuts and berries and the safest leaves my mom could find, and I _swear_ they're giving me a fricking rash...”

Nepeta pets your hair. “Of _course!_ We'll get some protein in you, no more of that hopping-rodent food.”

She helps you into a chair and then drags Equius by the ear into the kitchen, where you're sure she gives him a stern talking-to. When they leave, you drop any attempts to appear pleasant. You rub your hands all over your face to ease the headache snarling from the distant corners of your skull.

You curl further and further into yourself. Everything is falling to shit. God, when the fuck is Dirk going to come back, a-and fix this?

You hear Nepeta shout at Equius that _this girl_ has a name and _this girl_ is family and your fingers stop kneading your face and go instead to cover your ears. You feel like such a fucking baby for trying to block them out, and for, for hiding away while your parents face injustice. You're always the useless one, you're always just the kid...

“Roxy, are you okay?! Oh, honey, don't cry...”

You're shaking so hard you almost don't realize that Nepeta's wrong – you aren't crying. You can barely see, your face is scrunched up so tightly, but there aren't any tears. Hands are on your hair, a warm body squeezing into the chair next to you. It's weird, how much taller you are than her now. She's always been like a big sister, or an aunt, to you, and now she's just so tiny.

You babble. You tell her you're useless and a baby and she whispers, “But Roxy, of _course_ you're a kid, you're only fifteen!”

“Fourteen,” you mumble.

“Fifteen,” she corrects you. “Your birthday was December fourth, wasn't it?”

And that – that's the next thing, to bowl you over. Because your birthday, and Dirk's birthday, passed ages ago, and you were too wrapped up in the chaos to even notice.

Maybe, numerically, you're still a kid. But in the circumstances in which you live, you should've already grown up by now.

→

“They, swear up and down,” Dave says, “that it wasn't them.”

“Regardless, the Prospit group is being detained by Aradia and her people.” Your mother crosses her arms. “They've been suspended until investigations are able to discern their trustworthiness.”

You swallow. “That's okay news, but. How is there even time for that kind of thing right now? Investigations into our own kind, I mean.”

Dave purses his lips. “There isn't. There's barely even time to search for your brother. The way things are right now, those people won't be allowed to do more than stock rations for the rest of the war.”

You don't bother asking for the prognosis on the length of the war. Your mother was asked to look into it, once, and she returned from a vision with a grim face and whispered, in that voice she usually reserved for lying, “I'm not quite sure.”

Now, your father says, “At least we've learned that the people we thought were our friends still are. If there _is_ a conspiracy to get rid of us, it's from the dregs of the resistance. It's not from our people.”

“How can you be so sure?” you ask. “Couldn't everyone be lying?”

Your mother smooths her hand over her husband's shoulder. “Because they put your father in charge, in Dirk's old position.”

Dave brings his hand to rest on hers. “It's only temporary. When Dirk comes back...” He falls into a silence. Then, “I've got other guys, working with me. Mayor's still the head of the carapace troops. I trust that man with my life; they'd never betray me as long as he lives.”

“That's ominous,” you grumble. For a split second you think he's going to get mad, but then he snorts.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “But we'll cross that bridge running and screaming when we get to it.”

“We'll make a mad dash. By then we'll be armed, though – have experience firing over our shoulders.”

“If it's a rope bridge, we can cut it down once we get to the other side.”

“Leave all our enemies to fall into the raging rapids below.” You trade smiles. Your mother hides a laugh behind her hand. She rolls her eyes to save face.

→

He's down a long hallway. At first you think you're surrounded by green walls, but you reach out to guide yourself by touch and it's shrubbery, trees. It's a cold midsummer day, or a warm spring one, perhaps, but the sunshine doesn't burn. Your brother has his back to you. He's sitting at an intricately carved mahogany desk very far away and it's taking you forever to reach him.

The closer you get to him, the more you realize that he's barely getting any bigger. He's grown thin. He doesn't seem to notice you there because he doesn't turn around, so by the time you reach his side you have to twist and angle against the desk to get a good look at his face. His skin is like paper and his eyes are rimmed with that deep, violet bruise of hunger and exhaustion. His hands are clean and calloused like an artist's, not a soldier's.

There's shaking in the trees and a forest monster crashes into the room.

→

You awaken with no memory of your dream. But despair and fear clutches your heart, and it takes you a while to leave those dream-feelings behind.

→

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

Your dad is so swamped by people waving maps furiously marked with X's and O's and letters written in angry scrawls by discontents within and outside the organization that it takes him a minute to get back to you. “You can help me, Roxy, by getting yourself over to Nepeta's-”

“No. I'm gonna help you guys! I'm useful, you said I'm a good spy!”

He snorts. “I didn't say you were a good _spy_. You've never done full-blown espionage before. I just said-”

“Then I don't have to spy. Give me a job, anything. Except janitorial stuff. I'm here to fight a revolution, not to clean up after you slobs.” You wonder if the “slobs” was too much. Being sassy has always been the best way to get your father on your side – make him laugh, and he's on your side.

He eyes you. “If your mother was here, she'd point out to you that we've already lost one kid on this battlefield, and we don't need to lose-”

You sigh as loudly and obnoxiously as you can. “Oh, _dad_ , don't pull _that_ crap on me! You've lost a son, yeah, but I've lost a brother!” And you want to remember him accordingly. You want to absolve yourself of your sins by helping Dirk's beloved revolution succeed.

You fix Dave with your sternest look. “You wanted me to join, before. You believed in me, you believed in my ability to fit in here and do great things.”

“That was before your brother-”

“Like you didn't know there was a risk before! You can't chicken out just because you got reminded that this is war!” You cross your arms. “I'm sure won't!”

You think John would've broken a blood vessel if Jane talked to him like that, but then, despite their supposedly close friendship when they were kids, Dave is an entirely different father from John. He smiles in the face of your crass critique of his person and says, “Okay. Well, there's this one thing. Do you still know how to fire a gun?”

You jump at the chance. “I haven't in a while, but I'm sure it'll come back easy!”

Dave nods. “We want to train some people to serve as a rifle-based militia. The problem is, guns are hard to attain and ammo is precious, so we need to train these people in the most bullet-conserving way possible. If you can come up with a training regimen-”

You salute him so fast you nearly bruise your forehead. “No problem! I'm on it!”

→

The best the resistance can do for your trainees is soundproof a rather large basement area and construct a shooting range so that whatever firearms must be used aren't being fired off into this enclosed space and endangering everyone. Otherwise, this is all they have – it's far from the open forests in Jade's back yard where you learned to shoot, but it's going to have to do.

You have no idea how to train people to shoot without just letting them use bullets. You start by teaching basics like safety, loading and reloading, and how to actually hold the rifle. Then you have them fire blanks to get them used to the sensation of a firearm, the recoil, the noise.

But that's all blanks are. Noise and force. They can't learn to hit a target with pure gunpowder. A person needs to be able to see where their bullet will hit, and there, on the subject of teaching your students to hit a target, you are stumped. You have the group work with slingshots, arrows, even crossbows – by far the closest you can think in terms of the form of the weapon, but only because of the trigger and the handle. Everything else is so massively different that the fact you're using such materials to teach these people how to use a gun has actually driven you to miserable laughter on more than one occasion.

It isn't until you pay a visit to the pier with Nepeta that you see it sitting in the window of a fishing shop. Your savior – a harpoon gun. And not just any old clunky, gigantic harpoon gun – it's a small, _rifle-sized_ harpoon gun. And when you enter the shop to touch and ogle it, you realize that it is exorbitantly expensive.

You tell your father. He winces at the thought. You implore him – you don't need that many! Just enough to be able to individually train all one hundred of your gun-toting militia within a reasonable span of time!

“The first thing we do when we reclaim the government is lift the firearm ban,” the resistance's treasurer grumbles, doing the math. “Harpoon guns are fishing gear. That means we have to enter sea-dweller territory to purchase them.”

“Could we work with people out of Prospit, maybe?” your dad suggests. “Like how we do with the regular guns...?”

The treasurer shakes his head. “There's no market for that there. We need to get them at home. I don't know if we can reach a bargain on this, or if we just have to send some of our amphibious-passing friends out to make a regular purchase.” He scowls. “I hate spending money...”

Your father sighs. “Well, in the meantime, Roxy, I have something you can use.”

He takes you to a storage room. It's filled with the clothing and other useful goods of the dead, for the living to pick over as needed. There's a locked vault in the back where confiscated weapons are taken, and it is from here that he retrieves an electric blue harpoon gun. Despite the color, it's gorgeous. You take it in excited, grabby hands and rub it down, looking at all of the similarities between it and a gunpowder-and-bullets rifle and...

You pause, fingers lighting on a zig-zagging symbol. “This was Cronus's.”

Dave shakes his head. “It was his guardian's. Now it's yours.”

Oh. Eridan. The guy your father... “Thanks,” you say, not once looking up from the gun, “I'll take good care of it.”

The symbol is violet and it shines. You scratch it with your nails and nothing happens.

→

Something terrible is going to happen to him. You feel it in your bones.

Your mother smiles. “We're going into battle today, dear. Of course you're worried about him.”

She pulls your hood over your hair. You're dressed in dark blues, the kind that will be obscured by shadow and against the indigo of the buildings. Your mother, for once, has abandoned her golden seer's robes for a similar color scheme. The aim today is to blend in.

Out on the streets, you hear the people singing. They hold up your brother's image and light candles. It has been a very, very long time since anyone has seen him. If asked, you will fiercely deny the possibility of his death, but the people who have jumped at the chance to martyr him make you doubt your convictions.

You shake your head. Propaganda. Dirk's martyrdom is pro-revolutionary propaganda, and you need to focus. Your mother nods and you follow her, sprinting through the streets, heading away from the poor neighborhoods towards the center of the capital. The buildings get more and more familiar. You see an abandoned building on a corner where a magic shop used to dwell, and then, just over the tops of buildings, you see the spiked towers rise.

The castle. It looks just like it did the day your family was forced to flee it, save for the fuchsia and black banners emblazoned with the empress's emblem.

The streets are clear. It is the middle of the workday, so people should be inside, but... where are the kiosks? Why is there almost no activity at _all_?

“Mom,” you whisper, “it's too quiet.”

Her face is gray. “There's no way they could know what is about to happen today. Not unless there are people in the resistance giving information...”

The air starts to move with the reverberations of thousands of feet approaching from all sides. The resistance is finally closing in. To your horror, every door of the castle opens, and from these entrances, twice as many soldiers as your side has claim to begin to pour into the streets.

This is the first time the resistance is trying to storm the castle, and already, it looks like a failure.

→

You don't remember much that happens during the course of the battle. You leave you mother's side in a dead sprint to reach your post and after that you lose track of her. Your militia follows your command closely, but those at the front cannot reload quickly enough, and are picked off easily by the empress's soldiers. When you run out of bullets, you fight using the blunt force of your rifle and then your fists and whatever minor spells you can recall.

A woman next to you is stabbed through the abdomen and you see her insides spill out onto the street. A bullet barely misses you, grazing your shoulder painfully and instead killing a man behind you. You never miss a shot and by the end of the day you have killed people. At some point, the entire revolutionary army is forced to fall back, and that's when the royal soldiers start to pursue civilians. Those of you who are left try your best to protect them, but your people are being arrested the terror of being held as a prisoner of war bids many of you to run.

People scatter. It's too dangerous to go straight back to the bases. The city is crawling with royal soldiers. You're forced to ignore cries for help from people laying on the streets, who grab at your pant-legs and beg for help.

You twist and turn, alone, running in as many confusing patterns as you can to throw people off your trail. When you finally make it back to a base, you hear from the people there that your parents are in a different sector, and your father has been terribly wounded. You head there immediately, and it takes all your self-restraint not to go straight there and to make sure your paths are complex enough to deter anyone from following you.

→

Dave is alive. He's bloody and shouting and breathing through his teeth, and he orders your mother to take you and go. Somebody forces him back down on the table and you see red coating their arm and you turn away without having to be told twice.

The bloodied survivors being carted around headquarters hardly take your mind off of him. Your mother doesn't cry, and neither do you. She holds your hand and it hurts, she's squeezing so hard. She doesn't say it, but you know exactly what's on her mind – she's already lost Dirk. She doesn't need to lose another family member.

_If dad dies, we'll both have lost a brother,_ you think, and you let out a hysterical bark of a laugh. Rose looks at you as if you spoke your thoughts out loud before she strangles her expression into a parody of a more soothing one. “Your father's lived through much worse. He's going to be fine.”

“Can you see it? Can you use your powers to...?”

She bites her lip, eyes shining. “I'm too afraid to try.”

Eventually, the sorry excuse your movement has for doctors come out and tell you all that he's alive, for now. He's lost a lot of blood and they still need to wait and see if he gets infected, but the wound is, in the very least, closed.

When you enter, your dad's face is white and he doesn't look drowsy like you expected him to. His eyes are rimmed in bruises in a way that reminds you of something and his lip has a cut on it. Actually – his body is littered with them, and despite the war-battered look, seeing him pale and shirtless reminds you of how young your parents are.

“We lost,” Dave says.

“Don't worry about that now, Dad.”

“People died under my command.” He swallows. He's just staring at the ceiling. “I can't _not_ think about that.”

Your mother touches his good hand. “We'll get them next time.”

“I don't know if I'll even be able to participate in a next time.”

Her face quivers. “You're only saying that. You hurt so badly right now you can't even begin to imagine being fine, but you _will_ feel better...” She cuts herself off when her voice gets too high, too desperate. You look at your father's bandaged shoulder, and his hand, on the damaged side, the side he used to... he still holds his sword on is shaking. He can't seem to keep it from doing that. The fingers spasm and eventually he closes his eyes and pulls his good hand away from your mother to hide the shamefulness of it.


	24. Act 4, Part 5: Whispers of God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, and the chapters are written! I'll be posting them on Fridays again until the story ends.

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Five: Whispers of God

* * *

 

Your mouth opens and closes. “Dad,” you say. “You want me to lead the entire movement?”

It's by privilege of leadership that he got his own room, rather than bunking with all of the other injured and dying soldiers. The factions leaders stand together in this small space. The troll woman's jaw is tightly set, her arms crossed as her hard eyes take in the details of your person. It's as if she's silently telling you how unworthy you are of the position, and... you catch the Mayor's eye, and he smiles, or at least you think he does, from the way the lines of his face move beneath his cowl. As usual, you can only see his eyes. Your mother stands tall by your father's bed, serving as representative for the humans.

“She's an outsider,” the troll leader says. “She shouldn't lead us just because she's your daughter.” Her eyes slide to the mayor. “Just because some of us liked the previous royalty doesn't mean we _all_ have to abide by nepotism.”

“Roxy has been a part of this movement for years,” Dave says. “And the Mayor can back me up when I say she knows how to run an organization; she worked distributing food to the needy for several months before the search for Dirk forced her to drop her leadership.”

“She did a fine job leading the rifle militia as well,” Rose says. Much to your surprise, she doesn't add some irrelevant praise of your magic abilities to that statement.

Dave meets the troll leader's gaze again. “Roxy won't be leading alone – she'll have us.”

They all look at you – oh. It's your turn to speak. The troll woman is looking at your intensely. You feel kind of afraid of her, and. You feel like she's right! You have, technically, been part of this resistance for … as long as Dirk, anyway, but not as long as _her_ , and not as long as your parents. You don't know the first thing about leading people... well, more than a couple hundred people...

“I don't know strategy that well,” you say. “And I don't know the city like the back of my hand the way Dirk did.”

Your mother chuckles. “I think you know the city better than you realize. You maneuver it without getting caught every day.”

Because I'm too insignificant to follow, you think. “Yeah, but...”

“Roxy, we're not just going to dump you into a leadership role without any preparation. We'll train you, I promise.”

You start to flail a little bit. “Yeah, but why bother? You've got a bunch of leaders right here!” You say, gesturing wildly to the four people standing before you. “Why bother training a new one?”

“Because we need someone unbiased and empathetic to serve as an all-encompassing leader, someone... someone to veto the ideas that advantage one of our groups over the others. Somebody to bring some checks and balances to this system,” the Mayor says.

“Unbiased,” the troll leader snorts. “As if anyone is unbiased.”

“Hey-” your dad starts, but you interrupt him.

“She's right,” you say. “I don't know how I can present a truly unbiased account. I didn't grow up a, a carapace, or a troll, and they have so many different castes that every experience is unique.”

Your dad frowns. “So you listen to arguments as they are presented and weigh the good and the bad of each.”

“I don't think it's that simple...”

“It isn't,” the troll leader agrees with you. “We're going about filling Dirk's position all wrong. Dirk's position was all wrong in the first place.”

Your dad sighs. “But we need someone like that again – did you see those civilians, the way they sang his name, and held up his image like some damn messiah? We need that again! A face people can trust, somebody young and...”

You frown. “Dad, you're talking about Dirk like he was some kind of mascot.”

“Yes, Strider,” the troll woman scoffs. “You seem to forget that to be a leader, that our _revolution,_ is so much more than some marketing campaign.”

They argue about tone and showing proper respect to your fellow commanders. You tune them out, sinking into your thoughts. You wonder if Dirk came as bewilderingly to power as this before you remember, no; he _earned_ it. He's the reason these people were able to come together, into one movement. It still dizzies you to connect the boy who used to lay in bed, paralyzed by his misery, with the one who unflinchingly sliced men twice his size in half. It's hard for you to connect that violent Dirk with the one who would look at his boyfriend like the sun was born in his smile.

It's not so hard, however, to connect the politician with the boy who raged at the corrupt adults in Prospit who wanted to slander Derse and turn their faces from the wicked machinations of their own state. It's not hard to see a leader in the face of a boy whose eye was always turned to justice.

You start to wonder what he'd amount to, if he came back. But you push those thoughts away. He'll never get to accomplish what he wanted for Derse; if there were any secrets he held for these people's salvation, they are unreachable. You should know by now that your brother is gone. You _are_ the one who let him go.

Clenching your hands – slender hands, child's hands, with grazed knuckles and callouses and scars that cry of the hundred thousand fights they've seen – you realize that don't really know if you're capable of running a whole revolution. But how could you ever know, without trying? You owe Dirk. You owe it to him to make sure this thing he started reaches its full potential.

Your father smiles as you from wear he lays in bed and it occurs to you, again, how young he is, for a father and a man who has shed blood for two wars. “How about it, Rox?” your father asks. “Willing to take your older brother's position?”

“We don't want you to feel you have to,” your mother cuts in.

“We don't expect you to be exactly like Dirk, just because he's your brother,” the Mayor clarifies. “If you're uninterested or don't think you can do it, tell us plainly.”

“But we believe in you,” your mother says. “And if you're willing to take this on, we know you're capable of great things.”

The troll leader is less inspiring. “What'll it be, kid? Don't waste our time.”

That's right. You _are_ just a kid. But then, so was Dirk, when he seized control of this war. So were you, when you first joined it.

“If I take this,” you say, slowly, “I'm going to want to change a lot of things.” You notice the troll leader bristle. “I think we need another troll and another carapace... no, I think we need two more each on this council we have here. And I think our upper tiers of command, I think we need more humans of color, because we're really lacking, and they're really the humans hit the hardest by what's happening in Derse.”

They're listening to you. Oh, wow, they're really going to let you finish what you have to say before they give their opinions. “And,” you say, “I want us to stop stealing from civilians. We don't do it as a rule, I know, but some of the smaller sects on our fringes indulge a lot and we really need to crack down on it because it makes us just as horrible as the reds. Also...” You bite your lip to hold this one back before you relent. “If we storm the castle again, we need to take a much, much longer time preparing, months and months, even, and we need access to the actual weapons people are going to be learning to use. Our ranks only barely know what they're doing. We have so many inept, young volunteers, and I want to do everything I can to make sure they can protect themselves. I know it'll be hard, to train an entire army in secret, but it's necessary.”

You're quiet. After a few minutes, the troll nods. “That sounds expensive. Especially since you don't want us pillaging.” You shrug, because all of the mature, inspiring stuff you just said kind of drained you.

Your dad's face splits into a smile as he holds out his hand. “Welcome aboard, kid.”

→

The bombings on neighborhoods where the Condesce's supporters tend to flock peter out before they can finally reach the piers. Nepeta jokes that she would be thankful for the reprieve, for the excuse for her and Equius to stay in their home, if not for the fact that your face is about to become infamous. You start to apologize, voice wavering nervously, very unlike a rebel leader's, but she laughs, hushes you. “Don't go rejecting promotions all on account of _me!_ It's fine, you've given us a head start, we'll be out of here before anyone knows the name Roxy Strider.”

You can feel that your attempts to smile, to reassure her you won't take it to heart, are far from convincing. “Still, it just... really sucks, that getting involved like this means I'm endangering my loved ones even _more_ than before. How the heck do you ever put up with me?”

Nepeta yanks you into a tight hug. Her clothes smell faintly of the sea air, of that distinct, linen smell, and of ink. You can see bottles and bottles of it, staining her fingers, hundreds of drawings spread out before her as the day crawls by, with her stuck, cooped up in the house.

“Because.” Nepeta's voice wavers as you've never heard it before, and the tears that spring against your neck catch you by surprise. “You, Equius – you're all I have left. Don't ever – don't ever doubt that I love you, Roxy.” Her voice cracks, and you can't speak, you can't comfort her, because your brand new leader facade is already so close to crumbling. “I will always love you. Fur-ever!”

It's the last time you ever see her. After that, she and Equius flee the city, and you, in the meantime, sink ever deeper into it. There are dark spaces you have to acquaint yourself with if you're ever to illuminate them with the light of your revolution.

→

The troll leader seems to take offense to your suggestions that someone even lower on the caste than her be added to the regulatory council, but then Aradia takes up the job offer with enthusiasm and she is relieved. Aradia is experienced. She grew up in Alternia, but she spent most of her life here, in Derse. She has the exact kind of upbringing the troll leader respects, and better yet, she isn't as young as one of the carapaces the mayor recently invited to serve on the council with him. “No offense to you, Roxy, but we need more adults in this movement. I feel every day as if this organization is morphing into some militant daycare.”

“That's 'cause all the old people keep either died in the war with Prospit, or are dying in this one,” the new carapace boy pipes up. She shoots him a glare that has him quiet for the rest of the meeting.

Your newly anointed power is disorienting, and at first, you're almost too cautious about exercising it. At one point, your dad, wincing as he leans on the sword that has been reassigned to the role of cane, has to pull you aside and emphasize to you that you are allowed to argue with people and have an strong opinion on what is best for this organization. “You don't have to agree with Akatos just because she's a lowblood troll. I get that you don't want to overstep your bounds, but if it's not an issue concerning just lowbloods, you can't let her talk all over you. She ignores the needs of pawns constantly, anyway, and the mayor and his people can hold their own, but they'd be glad to see you on their side.”

Going about deciding where to train an army is the hardest part of your ascent. But the city is just too cramped, and so the decision is made, after much arguing, to search for open areas in the countryside where the army can amass without notice. It will be difficult, even with the lack of the Condesce's military presence in the countryside, because Derse is small, and the inhabitants of small towns are far from neutral to the revolution going on in the city. Rose suggests that the magic users on your side will have to start experimenting with cloaking spells. She seems to think that with enough magic users working at a time, trading shifts, perhaps even an army can be safely hidden.

“I don't think the people who left the capital for safety's sake are going to be too happy with our bringing the war to their doorstep,” one troll grumbles.

“Too bad,” Akatos snarls. “They're the cowards. Why should we let them keep pretending that what happens here won't affect them there?”

You're opposed to the idea of encroaching on actual towns, but it might be the only way to keep troops fed and clothed if the army does end up migrating out there to prepare. “Maybe the local economies would welcome us.”

“Or maybe they'd report our location to the crown.”

“We'd see an army coming to get us! It's not like Derse is all that foresty.”

“You seem to be forgetting that mountains and hills are an issue.”

“We'll park ourselves all over a mountain. Get the advantage in sight.”

The people on the council have lived in the capital all their lives. They simply do not know the terrain of the countryside nearly as well as they do the city, and so are forced to send parties out to scour the land before they are able to simply settle an army down in the wilderness. A few daring young people who used to live in tinier port towns but who came here for the thrill of the revolution are promoted, their knowledge of other areas making them far more valuable than before. In addition to having troops investigate the countryside, you have to continue organizing campaigns to fight against the empress's regime, to protect civilians, to assassinate royalist commanders, anything to get closer to your objective of diminishing Her Imperious Condescension's power and throwing her people off the suspicion that your organization is up to something big.

→

Moving the organization out of the city takes weeks. It isn't possible to hide that many moving people, even with magic, and so it is a process, where only small groups are sent out at a time. Half the council – the newest members – stay behind to make sure there are still eyes on the city, where most of the action is. But the bulk of the organization moves out. “This army is so small,” Rose murmurs. “Is this really what has become of our resistance?”

“We weren't originally supposed to _be_ an army,” Dave points out. “We were a terrorist organization when we started. This castle storming stuff, it's new for us.”

“We're going to have to encourage some of the people in the villages nearby to join up,” Aradia says, beaming. “We could throw a recruitment party!”

“When we don't have money for decorations?” you ask, at the same time your mother says, “And draw attention to the army we're attempting to grow in secret?”

Aradia rolls her eyes. “Gathering recruits will blow our cover anyway! We might as well go all out!”

You sigh. You hate to bring more people into this, but you need to, if you're going to amass enough power to take on the palace soldiers. You shudder at the thought of the fact that people, even bad people, have died by your hands, and that gathering new troops will mean making someone else fight like that. But what other option is there, when the person in power is murdering every dissident in her grasp?

→

“I prefer guns,” you say, aiming, “because I hate having to _feel_ hurting somebody.” You squint at the target. “But I hate them, too, because bullets are deadly. If I'm shooting, people are dying. It's not like punching someone until they fall down. You know most of your victims are never going to get back up.” You shoot. You hit the blue rings of the target.

“Your aim is off,” one of your students says.

“No,” you reply, careful not to shake your head for risk of losing your line of sight. You shoot again, hitting the red center this time. “I hit exactly where I wanted to.” You lower your gun. “Learning to hit to injure, but not to kill, is important too.”

→

Parties gather recruits by droves. It seems that every day there are fresh new faces filling up the barracks, marching in time. You think it's touching, if bittersweet, how many people want to rescue their country, even all the way out here, where the slaughter hasn't reached its gnarled fingers.

→

The sector of the organization responsible for getting access to guns – troll radicals, usually, since it was originally them who introduced the use of firearms for those unable to use magic – are disgruntled at how much longer the journey has become. Now they have to travel many miles to get to shady meeting points by the Derse-Propsit border, and then trek back past the city, to the encampments. They're afraid of being caught along the way.

“Afraid?” Aradia snorts. “Why don't you just shoot anybody who looks at you funny?”

“Because. Guns are illegal. We'll get in trouble.”

“Not if the people who could report you are _dead!_ ”

→

You dream that the smell of death clings to your person like some musky perfume. But you're not even sure if you know the smell of death, precisely. You know the smell of war well – there's a lot of burning, some rot, a tinge of copper and earth. But death, no, you've never experienced that outside of a great chaos that produces its own menagerie of sensations.

It all becomes normalized to you – being in this army. Teaching people to survive and kill, talking about the fate of other people, _deciding_ the fate of other people, granted, usually evil people, infamous for how many lowbloods they've slaughtered or revolutionaries they've tortured and killed. But it's painfully normal to you. Derse has been this way since you were born; the only thing that's changed is how close you are to the death.

It hits you that someday you'll probably die in it. You realize, regardless of where Dirk is, whatever his state and how he came to it, he, too, has been slated to die for this cause for a long, long time. And you are following him to that fate.

You close your eyes, count to ten, and push the feeling down hard enough you can lift your head high. You return to your duties, that world of battle, and let it feel natural.

→

Throbbing. Constant throbbing. You can't remember what it was like, before you started having all of these headaches. There's an omnipresent soreness squeezing your eyes, your temples, the bones of your face, and you only find relief at the end of the day, when the crowds pour back into their encampments, the noise dies down, and the night peels harsh light away from your eyes and lays soothing hands on your skull.

Dave says they're probably from stress. You're kind of impressed that you didn't become susceptible to stress headaches until the weight of a revolution and your brother's disappearance were placed on your shoulders. Considering the life you've lead, it's amazing they didn't kick in sooner. You share this observation with your mom and she chuckles, says it's probably genetics kicking in. She says she had a lot of headaches when she was your age; you probably inherited them from her.

This disgruntles you. “Thanks a lot for the crappy genes, Mom.”

In addition to the headaches, you've been dealing with a lot of vivid dreams as of late. Well – you think they're vivid. You've never had a good memory for dreams. You get the feeling they're about your loved ones, the war, your brother, but that doesn't really surprise you. What surprises you the the potency of the feeling left behind with them when you first wake up, the chest-crushing guilt and sorrow hanging orphaned in your mind, their causes lost. These dreams only add to your stress levels.

You ask your mother to soothe you with stories, to make up for this awful burden she has passed down onto you. She cards her fingers through your hair and tells you about a pair forbidden lovers, light nymphs born in a golden city. They belonged to a heartless clan who believed boys should be powerful creatures, and sons were raised to be leaders of their clans. But they regarded girls as useless for little else but marrying into other clans. (You're reminded, briefly, of Jade.) The lovers were not allowed to be together because of arbitrary rules in the light nymph society, and so they kept their love a secret for as long as they could.

Eventually, it became too dangerous for the nymphs to hide. The harsh light of the nymphs mingling in one kingdom, the reflection of the golden buildings and of the bright, massive sun they worshipped eliminated privacy and cast the actions of all into a literal spotlight. Tired of being scrutinized, the forbidden lovers risked their lives to steal away by night, when their powers were depleted... oh, but how the darkness protected them from their former lives, how its shroud kept them safe...

As usual, your mother weaves a tapestry of words purpler than twilight setting over the Derse's capital. When you are lucky, the ache in your skull dulls enough that you can follow her voice into the void of slumber. But sometimes, you aren't so lucky, and the pain forces you to listen.

Tonight you ask, because Dad was older, if he ever pressured her into it. She swears he didn't. You think that, regardless of the single year difference between them, there was a power imbalance amongst your parents. You think a boy taught to look at the world as his for the taking would take it. You don't say any of this, but the weight on your brow must drive your mother to insist, “We loved each other very, very much. Much more than either of our parents ever did. We had each other, from day one. And that was all we had.”

You turn her back to her and say you don't need stories anymore. “I'm not a little kid. I'm a whole army strong.”

Rose mercifully doesn't point out that it was you who asked for the stories. Instead she asks, what about another story? She knows of one from the vestiges of human culture, passed down for generations. About a girl who walked a country, gathering troops. A girl who spoke to god. You tell her to shut up, that you don't care. Rose says the girl was burned at the stake for her rebellion, and you tell her not to be so fucking vindictive. “I'm not being vindictive, Roxy. It's a true story. That's how it happened. I can't change the ending just for you.” You turn your back on her, grinding your teeth, your head throbbing. You storm out of the tent to watch the stars, to feel the damp air on your skin and wonder how you got here when you were, until recently, worried about finishing secondary school.

You walk along the encampment to calm yourself down. There are small fires hundreds and hundreds of feet away from you on each side. Though they are small, their presence in the darkness makes them immediately noticeable, and the shadows cast by those people near the fires seem to loom and dance like spirits. The camp is nearly empty; your headaches have kept you up past the hour that any but the magic-using sentinels are awake, except there, at that fire, there's a group trying to move into the shadows. Their voices are already stark against this still night, despite their attempts to whisper, and without thinking you move towards them.

Just out of the perimeter of firelight, there is a group of people struggling. You slink towards them, carful not to draw attention to yourself, but they must notice your presence, because horns – horns all rise from where their heads were ducked, and the feet that were stomping and kicking stop. You see Akatos among them and worry, immediately, that something is wrong.

“What is it?” you ask, hoping the waver of fear in your voice isn't obvious. “Is it intruders...?”

But as you get closer, you can see that the person being beaten is young, a young human man. He has trouble lifting his face for the pain, but when he does, you recognize him. Akatos squares her stance and steps towards you, putting her body between you and the boy. She snarls, “Stand back, Strider.”

“What the hell is this?” you ask. You point at the young man. “Who is this person?”

“A spy,” one of the trolls hisses. “We are making sure he gets the punishment his filthy traitorous kind deserves!” Akatos shoots him a look for that last comment, but the damage is already done.

“A spy?” you repeat. “Shouldn't the council have been informed of this?” Why the hell is she doing something like this at night? Why wouldn't she want to be caught? “Akatos, if this person is a spy, then more than just you needs to discuss how best to deal with him.”

Her glare is poisonous. Her lip curls back from her teeth in revulsion when she speaks.“He came at me with a knife.”

“No!” the person chokes. He lifts his head from the ground and looks at you with terror in his eyes. “I am not a spy, and I didn't attack anyone!”

“Of course a spy would say that,” one of the trolls spits. Akatos's eyes are bouncing from you to the space behind you, like she's searching for something. _A way out,_ is the explanation that comes to your mind, unbidden.

The young victim moans. “Please, miss, I just want to go home! I didn't attack anyone, these people just started hurting me, they wouldn't let-”

“Quit your lies!” Akatos snarls.

“It's because I tried to leave,” the young man whimpers, “but I swear, I swear if you let me go I won't tell anyone about you people being here!”

Akatos brings a hand up and silences him with a ferocious swipe that purposefully misses his flesh. But the words are out. They hang the air like an unforgiving smog.

His mouth is bloody. Candy red spills between his teeth. You resist the urge to scan the ground, to see if there are teeth lying bloodied there, because you know it will only make you more furious. And you are furious – you feel heat bubbling in your veins like some foul concoctions you've seen your mother whip up for grimdark bombs. You fix Akatos with a stare you hope conveys this.

This boy, whose eyes are as soft a brown as his hands, you recognize him. You taught him how to shoot about a day ago. His hands kept trembling. You told him if he didn't know how to do magic he had to learn how to use the gun, but he just couldn't get the hang of holding it, and he said, maybe I'm not cut out for this, maybe you should just discharge me. And, because you thought it was a problem of confidence, you'd touched his shoulder and told him not to give up.

For this boy to have been a spy all along – you've had more shocking revelations, truth be told. But you don't think this is the truth. You think, you feel, that something else is going on here.

You and Akatos are still in a glare-off, those who had been beating the boy still, but with their hands still clutched on his shirt, holding him in place. He's on his knees, eyes bewildered and pleading with you when the sound of footsteps barely reaches your consciousness, when you hear your mother's sharp intake of breath behind you.

One of the troll boys in on the beating, probably no older than seven sweeps, is the first to crack. “W-we recruited him a week ago, but now he wants to desert us!”

“I never agreed to _anything,”_ the victim sobs. “I want to go home, I can't desert what I never agreed-”

Akatos smacks him, but you're by her side in a second, grabbing her wrist, wrenching it away, and the two of you are locked in a fistfight for all of two seconds before your parents drag you back. Akatos's posse, bewildered, takes the cue to grab her and drag her away, too.

You're furious. You lose all sight of your patience, of the model of Dirk's calm, cool leadership and you melt down. “Is this where all of the new recruits have been coming from?!” The air is so cold against the skin of your throat. It's being rubbed raw as you scream, “How many people are here because you threatened them?!” You want to get a hold on Akatos's shirt, to yank her towards you so you can really beat her face to a gore, but your damned parents are holding you back. “How many have you kidnapped right under my fucking nose you _mutinous-”_

“Roxy-” Your mother's voice, concerned. You yank yourself out of her hold, nearly knocking your father over in the process. You see your mother grab him quickly, the way he winces when he puts too much weight on his bad leg, and you feel a bit like a monster, that you're capable of hurting people every time you lash out.

You turn your gaze to Akatos, who stands before you without being restrained. She isn't running away. “You'd second guess me?” she hisses. “He can just as well be lying. You were a spy, you know-”

“What spies look like, and they don't look like that.” You take a step towards her, and you can feel the group that has gathered here, the crowd that has leaked from their beds to this very spot flinch, at the thought of watching their leaders meet in battle yet again. “Admit it. You're so desperate for this army to grow, and asking nicely isn't fast enough, so you've just been lifting fucking teenagers out of their beds-”

Akatos lets out what can only be described as a roar of frustration. “Oh, come – _you're a teenager,_ Mistress Leader!” Akatos spreads her arms out. Her shadow stretches out, a distorted cross, cutting stripes against the people of the encampment who have wandered out of their beds, attracted by the noise. “Are you saying teenagers are incapable of fighting the good fight?”

You grind your teeth. “Consent-”

She laughs so raucously to interrupt you that you can't even remember how that sentence was supposed to end. “Consent! You're whining about – what, do you really think the _empress_ will hold back from instating a draft?” She starts to walk in crescents before you, twisting and closing in like a lioness cornering prey. “Do you think she'll hesitate even for a moment if she catches wind of our army to drag in massive amounts of soldiers by force? How are we supposed to realistically compete with that, except by instating one of our own?”

“You are not the leader of this organization,” you snarl. “And I'm starting to see a reason for why nobody considered _you_ to replace my brother.”

Akatos lunges for you again, and before your parents or her lackeys can step in, you have intercepted her weight and used it against her, to throw her to the ground and keep her there. She tries to scramble up from where she's landed on her stomach, but you grab her by the back of her shirt and haul her up instead.

“Find everyone who is here against their will!” you shout to the the crowd that has gathered. “Find them and let them go. As for those involved in the kidnappings-” Akatos struggles against you, clawing, but you subdue her - “the council will decide what to do with you in time.” You nod, briskly, vaguely, and there are people taking Akatos from you, binding her and her young followers and then dragging them away.

It's too much. There are too many people in this crowd, there's too much disappointment in this revelation, and so you you shove your way through the sea of stares and bodies, making a beeline for your tent. Before you're free of them, you say, to someone, “Get-” - for all of your fury for his sake, you can't remember his name - “get the victim cleaned up, before you escort him safely home.”

The camp is as active as it is at daylight. You are so overcome with exhaustion that you think, even if there are only a few hours left until the sun rises, the minute you hit your cot you will pass out.

→

You won't let the council execute the kidnappers, but you refuse to let them go. In the end, you all agree to make them dig. For hours and hours, from sunrise to sunset under the gaze of guards, dig. On day three, Akatos tries to use her shovel to knock someone out, and it is confiscated. And so she has to dig with her hands. They can only stop for food, drink, and sleep. At the end of the day, they fill the earth back in the holes. It's the same worthless cycle every day.

“This is torture,” you moan into your hands. “We're torturing them. Even though we were trying to leave terrorism behind, now we're sentencing them to labor.”

“Yeah, but not _death_ by labor,” the youngest carapace on the council pipes up. “Besides, they threatened to kill those people's families. And they used actual force with that fear to manipulate people! _That's_ torture.”

“We don't know for sure that they _haven't_ killed any families,” Dave points out.

“But we don't know that they _did._ ” You shake your head. “Innocent until proven guilty...”

“But they weren't innocent,” Aradia says, flatly. “That's the point of having a punishment in the first place.”

 

♠

 

You come to stand before his body in the yard and can't bring yourself to move any farther. It's dark. But you can see by the light from the house, and it's clear he's dead. He's not faking it as a part of any grand scheme. He's just... dead. Candy red blood blooms on his back where he was shot, staining the fabric. His fingers don't so much as twitch with the vestiges of synaptic activity. If he were alive, he'd be breathing in grass and dirt. But he's not. No one's home.

You register the sound of rustling grass, and look over to see the Felt have dumped her body near his. The Felt's fingers linger on her body for a few seconds longer than necessary, their eyes for even longer than that, but they do not cry out in anguish. You step back so they can turn his body over. They're quicker about that; they don't have quite so much sentimentality to spare for him, even now that he is dead.

You stare at Dirk and Snowman's mangled corpses, their faces now both in view. Even in death, those two seem to reach for each other. Even in death, those two have left you behind. Excluded you. With your foot, you shove their limp hands away from each other. Seeing their bodies without their mannerisms, without signs of life, it's bizarre, but not out of the question. You've lived a long time. You've seen many people die, and far more brutally than this. In any case, you're mad at them still, for abandoning you like this. For choosing each other over you yet again, and for leaving you alone with the demon.

You feel him lurch up beside you, about as subtle as an earthquake. “Meenah.” He's pushing something sharp into your hands. “Would you like. To join them on the lawn? Or would you like. To redeem yourself to me?”

You grip the handle tightly. You'll never forgive them for this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not the last you'll see of meenah's pov.....
> 
> none of the canon derse dreamers had the hypocrisy and the passion (and low blood) I needed from the troll leader, so original character, im sorry. I've exhausted my cameos.


	25. Act 4, Part 6: Do You Hear the People Sing?

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Six: Do You Hear the People Sing?

* * *

 

You wake up with your eyes puffy and dry, your face sore as if you cried last night. The remnants of a dream flicker at the edge of your consciousness, but you can't really hold onto it long enough to remember the details. You lay your hand on your chest and suddenly, an image from your dream comes to you - a naked heart, its tissue shiny and red. You can actually feel its pulse on your palm, the blood that slicked to your skin. But the memory is like a lightning flash: brilliant and vivid, but terribly brief. Your mind offers up few other clues as to the details if you dream, and besides, it matters little. You have too much work to do today to concern yourself with dreams.

When you leave your tent, all eyes fall on you. A few weeks ago, you would've stumbled in their gaze, but now you walk with purpose, nodding briefly and carefully handing out orders and praise. You feel like a show horse – you've been groomed for this position, you think. But no matter. The rest of the camp has to be roused before daylight breaks. You have a big day today, and a long path to walk. There's no time for a crisis of identity.

“It's ridiculous – they're going to see us coming, and we're going to be exhausted by the time we get there.”

“If we follow the plan,” you say, “we will not have to worry about either of those things.”

Your mother is nowhere to be found up until it is time to start packing up the tents. Your father thinks she is still in theirs, and so you volunteer to get her. You're surprised, and a little annoyed, that one so punctual as your mother should be so late getting up.

She's immersed in some old tome when you arrive. It leaves dust on her fingers and has cracks in its binding and generally looks as if it is very, very old and will fall to pieces as soon as someone handles it poorly. The Old Language on its pages seem to creep and crawl more than usual, and there is something sinister about the tome, more felt than seen. “Mom,” you say, and she slams the book shut and slips it into her bag, smiling at you as she goes. “Silly me,” she says, “getting caught up in a good book like some school girl...”

She commences packing like a human whirlwind. You eye her ministrations. “...I can get someone to help you take down the tent, if you like.”

“Yes, please. Send someone young, someone handy, please.” She isn't looking at you. She's just packing her things. You're not surprised she brought a book to a training camp – it's so like her, to bring impractical things anywhere if she thinks she'll have even an instant of free time.

She stops suddenly and looks at you. “Why are you watching me, Mistress Leader? Don't you have duties?” She flicks her hand at you. “Go! Shoo!” And, after one last, hesitatingly glance, you do.

The camp comes to life like a monster, growling and thrashing, rearing up in a mass, like a single entity. And you lead it – you lead the creature back into the heart of darkness, the city where it belongs.

→

You have to make stops on the way, however.

The first town you stop in is aghast at your force, but unsurprised by your existence. Aradia chirps, gun to an innkeeper's head, that he'd be wise to let you all take rooms for the night for free. “We're fighting for your liberation, after all. It's the least you can do!”

Troops close off the town's gates so no one can leave. Your army's presence halts the place's usual flow of economy, and so you all do what you can to make up for it. The places of business are shocked when your troops toss down coins before they help themselves to the wares.

“For the food,” you say, placing a bag on the table. It is heavy, and you see the bob of the innkeeper's hand when he takes it, cautiously, looking at you like a rabbit maneuvering a lion. He's twice your size. You could easily kill him.

“You think that blood money will make up for holding guns to our heads?” he asks. His eyes are stony.

“No,” you say. “But we can't really afford any of you tattling to the crown. So blood money will have to do.”

The village is small enough that the army you have amassed can control it. You're worried about the next town between your army and the capital, though, and you're considering skipping it. “Port towns,” Dave grumbles in agreement. “Too many seadwellers. I can see why you'd hesitate, but the capital's pretty far even from here. How are we going to have the energy to attack a damn castle after walking for eight hours straight...”

You look at the maps spread out on the table before you. If you let your focus wane for even a minute they become a blurred, sepia mass. Your temples are already getting sore.

“Can we camp out?” you ask. You bite your nails and find them already short, jagged. You should cut what's left off, but you need the comfort of the distraction chewing them provides. “I know when we first headed into the countryside we were in smaller groups, so it was easier to camp, but can we still...?”

On a map, Derse is an impressively small country. But to walk it – and en masse – has remarkedly shifted how you think of countries, how you read a map. It's frustrating to think that _this,_ the reality of the distance, the sheer exhaustion, could be what stops your army from achieving its goals. But it cannot end here – and so the decision is made to invade the next town as originally planned. “We'll use more force if we have to,” you mumble. “Lock up the capable looking people. Steal weapons, if we come across any. It's not like they could overpower us. I'd just rather not lose any of our troops in some petty fight for shelter...”

The Mayor sighs. “It's like being in Prospit all over again. Do you remember ransacking towns in Lolar? I always hated that more than anything else I had to do, but I had my orders, I suppose.”

Dave hums. “I wasn't in that division. I was usually toe to toe with the Prospitian army, even after I got promoted.”

You rub your hands over your face. “It's useless to try to sneak our way in. They're going to find us out. When we get there, they'll be ready for us. We'll be lucky if we can even  _get into_ the city.”

“Yes, but we don't need to lean on the element of surprise anymore,” Aradia says, patting you happily on the back. “We're actually trained enough now to handle a real battle.”

You peak between your fingers. “You think so?”

“I _know_ so. Er. No, I mean, not for sure. I think you should ask your seer mother if you want somebody sure. But we're definitely more experienced than during our first attempt.”

“It probably helps that we've changed the objective,” the Mayor's protégé chirps. “Blind force is one thing. But what we've got...”

The Mayor hushes him. “We may have these people captive,” he says, nodding to the innkeeper and his partner, shuffling around the room serving drinks, “but they still have ears, and legs, and mouths, and they can tell on us the moment we lower the knives from their necks.”

The carapace boy nods rapidly, pressing his lips shut. The way he almost bites the inside of his mouth to keep it closed reminds you of something a little kid would do.

Ø

The castle is quiet. It's damn creepy, you think, how a party can be going on in one room, but the noise won't carry on into any other one. When a door shuts here, it seals everything inside, air tight. Every person, every sound, every sign that you aren't alone disappears as if into a vacuum.

Except that you aren't alone, because there are footsteps headed towards you now. The rooms may be soundproof to each other, but you can hear anything that happens in one hall as if it were happening right next to you, which it often isn't, because these halls wind and twist like labyrinths, and are maybe miles long. You have the childish urge to hide from the sounds of approach, to leap behind a banner marked with an obnoxiously large symbol of the empress's caste, but your colleague isn't _that_ stupid (you think), and so you just wait in dread until his short, squat form rounds a corner.

“You'll never believe it!” he says. “I saw the ghosts again!”

Oh god – this bullshit again. You'd been hoping that would just be a one time thing. If you had dark pupils and irises like a human or a troll, he'd see them rolling into the back of your head. But the caterwauling dunce can't see jack. That's one glory of being a carapace, you think, sarcastically. Your mouth and your body language may be fucking backstabbers, betraying your emotion, but your eyes, with their white, almost imperceptible pupils, never are.

The chatty dolt waits about a minute for you to show interest before deciding to just plow on anyway. “I saw them-”

“I don't care,” you snap. “I have more important things to do than listen to you describe your latest hallucination of the former queen juggling apples, or whatever the fuck you said she was doing yesterday.” In fact, there's a massive pile of paperwork in your office. You've been agitatedly pacing the halls in order to avoid it, hoping the current political chaos would distract Her Imperiousness from murdering you if it's not done by the end of the day.

He looks crushed. “But they're  _real ghosts!_ I swear! And she wasn't juggling, I said she was just standing there, touching the fruit in the garden, just like she used to! I couldn't believe my eyes!”

“Maybe you shouldn't,” you sneer.

The crestfallen dumbass fixes you with a pout. “But Jack – it'd be one thing if it was just her, just that time, but two ghost sightings! For two straight days! It must mean something! And this time, you'll never believe it-”

“You're right, I really won't.”

“This time, I saw her, in the mirror! The empress was walking down the hall, and I saw the reflection of the former queen, trailing behind the empress's, in the mirror! The empress didn't even seem to notice! A-and this time, it wasn't just the former queen! She was with-”

“I don't want to hear it!” you snap. “If you keep talking about the dead queen this, the dead queen that, people will think you're one of those nutty Royalists, and you'll be sentenced to death for mutinous leanings.”

The cretinous dimwit presses a shiny black hand to his mouth. “Oh my,” he says. “That would be pretty awful...”

“Quit wasting _my time,_ at least, with ghost stories,” you say. “I'm a pretty busy guy.” 

You know that if you stay he'll only try to argue, and so right then and there you take your leave. After a few seconds of stomping away you even glance over your shoulder to make sure he hasn't followed you. And he hasn't: he's standing where he was before, looking lost in thought. Jeez, you think, rubbing your arms. That guy. He's supposedly a courtyard droll, but he's always wandering into the castle to bother you. He probably even left the door open when he came in – it's fucking  _freezing_ in here.

You ponder ratting out his poor work behavior to the empress. Maybe, if you do your work now, get on her good side, you can convince her to fire the cloddish dwarf. The thought of never having to hear him rambling some silly nonsense at you ever again almost motivates you to return to your office, but – nah. You hate paperwork. You'll check out the kitchens, see if you can steal some cake or something. It'll be warm in there – god damn,  _someone_ needs to close a window before you die of hypothermia...

→

The gates fall and the army pushes its way into the capital. The forces fan out, pouring between buildings, crowding streets, stretching and fitting the city's spaces like a puzzle piece fitting back into its place. Some civilians shout abuses from their windows. There are those who cry out in encouragement, others who race out to wave flags and cheer, but most civilians choose to shut themselves in the safety of their houses. The last time the castle was stormed, the innocents paid dearly. They can only imagine what the forces of Her Imperiousness will do if they defeat the rebels again, what havoc they will wreak in triumph, what blood will stain the streets.

The rebel troops are not attacked on their way into the city, and upon entering the main square in the center of the capital, just in front of the castle, they can see why: every member of the kingdom's police force must be gathered here. The empress's men stand silently, lined up around the castle like toy soldiers, still, expressionless, their uniforms pressed and clean. The rebel army is a mishmash of hand-me-downs and rags in comparison, but this time, at least, both sides seem to be equally armed. For every sleek gun the rebels are lacking, for every expensive wand they don't have, there is some other thing to make up for it. Rifles, harpoons – this time, no one is unarmed.

The squad of lowblood radicals shakes their guns and sneers at the highbloods standing regally in the distance, looking for weak lines on their oppressors' lips, looking to intimidate. Aradia quiets them down. They lower their guns from where they were carrying them over their heads and take them in hand, ready to fire.

You are towards the front of the fray, but not dead center, and not without a layer of soldiers between you and the frontlines. You look up at the center balcony of the castle and think that if you were frontmost place, you could lead your troops straight into battle, and anyone with a gun or a wand working from that balcony could easily kill you. But you're in a throng of people, a living shield, you think, bitterly, and when they turn to look at you, it is with stars in their eyes, in anticipation of a speech.

You're not as eloquent as Dirk. You took more after your father – you cannot fake sincerity the way your mother does, as you are made uncomfortable by that sort of genuine attempt to be inspiring. You don't really believe that pausing in front of the enemy while any old forces could be closing in from around the corner any minute is a good way to conduct a speech, but you feel like you should try something, even a small something, just because everyone expects it of you, but words in these moments tend to be the ones recorded in history books, and you don't like that weight on your shoulders. You're about to open your mouth, to disappoint future kids studying their country's legacy, to tell everyone to just do their best and get on with it, when there is a murmur, and the doors to the center balcony open, and the Condesce herself steps out to greet your army.

Her presence brings confusion. She has never appeared during a battle like this before. People boo, there are a few, brief struggles to hold rebel troops back and away, and someone sends a burst of pink, crackling electricity hurling straight at the empress's head. She blocks it effortlessly with one bangled and manicured hand, has the nerve to yawn as she does so. You quietly curse the idiot who just attacked her, for throwing the first punch, for neglecting her power, but the evil queen loudly orders her troops to remain at a stand still, and they do. Chaos does not break out just yet. “Where's her triton?” one of your nearby commanders whispers into your ear.

Her fuchsia-painted lips stretch to reveal a shark-toothed grin. “You know, most decent visitors think to send word ahead before they go stomping their way onto somebody else's property...”

“That castle belongs to the Black Queen!” shouts a Royalist.

“It belongs to the people of Derse!” shouts someone else.

“Go back to the carcass of Alternia, and leave our coutnry alone!” comes the cry. There are roars of agreement and the Condesce looks on, her face tight. Your gaze scans the crowd and you see that your soldiers are restless. Commanding officers are tense, their eyes darting this way and that in anticipation of danger. Superiors hush inferiors who are shouting out of turn. Many eyes are on you.

You mutter a quick incantation in the Old Language and, like the empress, you magnify your voice for the whole square to hear. “Your Most Royal Condescension, we are not here to make conversation. We are here to take back our palace and restore the throne to the people of Derse.”

There is a chorus of cheers. The Condesce's lip curls.

“Oh – I see you've found yourselves a new mascot! And this one knows children's tricks! Maybe she'll throw her voice and make a statue talk next. What an improvement on your last one.”

“Don't talk about the prince in vain!” one crowd-goer shrieks. There is a roar in agreement. Commanding officers try to quiet them down, but it has begun: shouts of “Long live the prince of heart!” echo maddeningly throughout the square. The Condesce's face twitches, and her soldiers start to square their shoulders.

“Be quiet!” you demand. “All of you!” You turn your gaze to the empress. Even with her standing so far away, on her lavish balcony, you can read every face she makes. She's got a bad temper and she wears her emotions on her sleeve. You'd think a politician would learn her way out of those habits (you did), but then, having power means never having to change to please anyone, to avoid stepping on toes by hiding your cringes.

You call out to her: “We'll give you a chance to compromise with us. If you cooperate, we'll take you in and you'll get a real and fair trial. We want as little blood shed as possible. We want this to be civil, but if we have to take drastic measures we...”

“You know,” the Condesce cuts in, her magic easily magnifying her voice over yours, “I was hoping this would go a bit more civil, too. But with _you_ all surrendering to _me_ , and my streets getting significantly cleaner of dissidents while simultaneously getting a _hell_ of a lot more colorful. I'm getting so sick of your Dersites and your obsession with purple – some warmer, more firey colors would go with this city _so much better-_ ”

“Do you expect us to just stand here and take this crap from you?” you demand. You immediately regret the coarseness of your words but many rebels cheer around you.

“Relinquish Derse!” the crowd cries.

“This is our country! Our castle!”

“Our prince!”

“We know you took him!”

“Give him back! Give him back!”

“Return the prince! Return the prince!”

You lower your voice, bewildered, and hiss to a man at your side, “What are they talking about?!”

“The rumor,” he whispers. “That the Condesce has Dirk imprisoned.” You stare at him. He stares back. “Surely you don't think a wild animal got him, or-? Or some civilian? Where else would he be, Mistress Leader?”

“We can't let them talk like this; we _don't_ know for sure where Dirk is, and it doesn't matter right now,” you hiss back. “If I have to keep shouting for everyone to shut up, we're going to look like an army of bratty kids-”

The Condesce slams her hands on the railing of her balcony and makes the sound echo like a canon going off. There is confusion, pandemonium, people looking to see if anyone got hurt when she roars, “So you people want your prince, do you?”

The crowd is an incoherent din of boos and cheers.

“You want your _precious_ prince?!” The Condesce rears up, sparkling jewelry suddenly like dragon's scales, beautiful armor for a monstrous woman. “Because I'll give you your precious prince!”

She reaches into her room, is handed something by a servant, and, to the complete and utter horror of every hopeful gathered in the square, she slams down her triton before the crowd. “ _Here's your damn prince!_ ”

Gasps and cries of pain reverberate throughout the rebel forces. You wobble on your feet. Your vision swims. You swear, even without them near you, you can hear your father choke on a sob, you can hear your mother's unexpected shriek – or maybe those are the people standing near you, you can't tell, everything is bending, everything is starting to break down because stuck on the sharp prongs of the Condesce's triton, its gory end dry, is your brother's severed head. The familiar mouth is slack, the eyes dull, your brother is officially dead, you hear the whispers, “The prince is dead, our hope is lost,” and you cannot, you absolutely cannot let yourself, you cannot let this army break down now,

With the roar of a fury the likes of which you have never before possessed, you demand your troops attack. And, as if they are one, great, monstrous mass, they give a collective roar of their own, and they obey.

→

It's all a blur. You fight valiantly, you do, your fury burning a whole in your chest and your throat like hot coals. But it's not enough to prevent. Maybe, if you hadn't been caught off guard, with. Maybe if you hadn't found out about. In such a horrible way. Maybe then you wouldn't have...

The rebels do not take the castle. They fight with all they've got, but they do not take the castle. And that's okay. Because taking the castle, while the ultimate goal of the revolution, is not the only goal of this battle.

See, the thing about being a people's revolution is, you need to actually work for the people. You can't get so caught up in your other agendas that you forget about them. And the thing about civilians dying in wars they didn't enlist in is, that's not fair. War's not fair, but you need to try to pay people back. After all, if too many civilians die, if all of the civilians die, then, where's the country you sought to liberate? What is the people's revolution without its people? What is Derse without its Dersites?

The Condesce is too distracted in her triumph capturing the “new mascot” and leveling your forces, driving the rest in “terror” to “retreat” to notice the other machinations at work here. It isn't until her soldiers go stomping through lowblood neighborhoods, high from the battle, buzzing with bloodlust, that they realize how quiet it is. It isn't until they bust down the doors looking for a little sadistic fun that they realize, the apartments. They're empty. The pawn neighborhoods, too, and the lowerclass humans, all of them, almost entirely devoid of life. Because what the Condesce and her troops forgot was, this is a people's rebellion. And if you can't make the throne safe for the people, you get the people as _far away as possible_ from the throne.

When the soldier grabs you, when he covers your mouth, you forget to bite. You laugh. You laugh loudly because you are emotionally compromised, you are emotionally compromised by the thought of your brother having been chopped to bits, and you are emotionally compromised by the euphoria of knowing that for months, hundreds and hundreds of refugees have been snuck out of the capital by the rebels you left behind in the city when you left it ages ago, you're giddy because even now, especially now, with the gates to the city are destroyed and the Condesce's forces are distracted, and hundreds, hundreds, huge crowds of the oppressed are running, running, running from this wretched city that has forsaken them, escaping into the sweet, wide open space of Derse's countryside, and you laugh until the soldier holding you tight smashes your head so hard you lose consciousness instantly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah what's [this](http://pof-series.tumblr.com/)??? (don't feel obligated to follow or even look at it, i just really, really needed a place to put process notes/trivia that's never going to make it into the series)


	26. Act 4, Part 7: Four Walls

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Seven: Four Walls

* * *

 

 

When you come to, you are in – are you still in the city? It is a blur of violet on all sides, and no glimpse of blue breaks through above – perhaps you've been dragged inside? It's cold and it's dark, but not necessarily night-sky dark, not necessarily open-air cold, but like wherever you are it's badly lit and poorly heated. And you are not surrounded by the stomping feet of a crowd but... utterly alone, lying on a smooth, stone floor. Your eyesight adjusts, your short term memory and sense of space and time sharpening with it.

Every surface is violet. Slowly, you raise your head, cognizant of the throbbing – not from your usual migraines, you think, but instead from... a blow. That's right – somebody hit your head. You press your hand to your head to find the source of the pain, and there it is, a huge, sore-to-the-touch lump. You wrack your jumbled brains and think you remember that this is a good thing. If there's a lump, that means there's less of a chance of internal bleeding.

Groggy, you turn to look around the small space you're in, and... you see a heavy, metal door, with a small, barred window. Aaand nothing else but walls. Dammit. You're in a dungeon. The empress must have captured you. You start to crawl, then, when your body proves sore, but bearably so, you push yourself to your feet and get close to the door. You've grown quite tall; it doesn't take much effort for you to lean up and look through the small, barred window, into the rest of the jail. All you manage to see are many of the other same doors and – a black carapace guard. He catches sight of your eyes peaking out at him before you can think to pull away. You're afraid he'll come into your cell, do something to you, and you immediately take a defensive stance. You're ready to fist-fight if you have to, and you tense as his footsteps close in... and then drift away. For the sake of caution, you hold your fists up a little while longer before finally lowering them, having accepted the guard's departure.

He's going to tell someone, though. That you're awake. In the meantime, you back away from the door, but keep your body turned towards it, ready.

After some time, it strikes you that this dungeon is eerily quiet. You saw other doors, when you looked out there, so there must be other prisoners here. But why aren't they calling out? Clawing and banging at the doors? Perhaps they are restrained better than you are. Or perhaps the rest of the prisoners of war don't have information you have, and haven't been spared their lives, meaning you really _are_ alone here.

You take a deep breath and beseech whatever powers may be to keep your parents safe. _I bet if Mom knew I was so concerned with their well-being, she'd say, and what, you don't want to be safe yourself? You want us to be all alone, to lose yet another kid?_ You shake your head. No. You're not allowed to think about him right now, and you're not allowed to think about them worrying about you.

_You can't waste time making wishes for yourself,_ you think, firmly.  _You have to do your best to make things happen. Your life, your control._

You try not to notice how small your cell is. How smooth, how strong these four walls are.

→

Footsteps come and go. But this set. This set doesn't stomp, like boots, in a hurry. This set clacks, high-heeled shoes on stone, strutting leisurely down the hall like it's a catwalk.

You resist the urge to snort. You know instantly, without having ever met her in person, who this set of footsteps belongs to. When they stop outside your cell door, you are reassured.

The door isn't opened. She talks to your through the barred slot. “Sorry, you don't get a window that looks out into the city. I just figured, you know. Why take a risk? Even if you are a little nobody,  _clearly_ chosen at random, you are still the prince's predecessor and you are still important enough to those dolts that a subterranean cell is just the kind of thing to keep rescue missions from lifting you out of here.” 

So, now you know you're underground. The information is meaningless while you're locked up here. She probably knows that. She strikes you as the gloating type.

“What _can_ you do?” she asks. “Why _did_ they choose _you?_ Certainly not for your speech writing abilities. That was quite the snore-fest earlier – thanks for not being long-winded at least, though. Some revolutionaries just go on and _on_. There was this one guy in Alternia, hundreds of years ago, could preach for _hours_ and _hours_ , like, we _get_ it, you've got the messiah thing going on, you want to spread love and peace, blah blah blah, get to the _point!_ ”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you mutter.

You can see her mouth through the slot. You're afraid she'll sneer in disgust, order your death, but she doesn't – those lips, they stretch into a manic grin. “There you are! I'd just about thought I was talking to an empty cell.”

“What do you want?” you ask. “You can torture me all you want, but I'm never telling you anything.”

She clucks her tongue and you think that must be dangerous, with teeth like hers. But maybe sharp-toothed types have tougher skin in their mouths. You don't know if you ever noticed, if Porrim's tongue was stronger than yours. You cut your mouth on her teeth several times, though, always too eager, she said, you couldn't just rush into it, you had to be careful-

“I don't care,” she says, “about your stupid little rebellion, save when it attacks my castle. Do you know how many valuable soldiers I wasted on you people today?” You resist the awful urge to smile. You aren't happy to hear of death, but you're happy to hear your people at least made a dent in the enemy. The empress continues, “Now I'm going to have to instate a wider draft. I was thinking, you know, drag in the dregs of society, force _everyone_ over the age of eight sweeps to do my bidding, and if I manage to catch few mutant bloods in the process, I'll throw them to the sharks. Kill two winged-creatures with one stone. 

“Or, I would do that. But it seems,” and you can see her jaw locking up, the curl of her upper lip, “it seems that the neighborhoods have grown dreadfully _empty_.”

“Interesting,” you say. “Imagine, a whole population just... disappearing.”

She slams on the door. “Who the hell do you think I was?! The former governess of some measly fucking  _borough?!_ Some village mayor?! I wasn't even a queen! I was the empress – the  _empress of Alternia!_ You think that living trash your organization snuck out of this city will be safe in the country? I can spread my control to those shitty little slums in no time! Every fucking port town is  _swarming_ with sea-dwellers, and if you don't think they won't reinforce my power you're a fucking  _idiot!_ ” She slams her hands on your door again. “I'll find them! Every damn refugee! And the ones I don't absorb into my army, I'll hang their corpses like god damn party decorations from the city rooftops! I ran an entire  _empire,_ and I can sure as hell handle some shitty little state like Derse!”

“Oh please,” you snort, very unlike a revolutionary leader, and very like a petty teenager. “The Alternian Empire crumbled after one little disease ruined its guardianship program.” Feeling daring, you step up to the door, get really close to the slot so she can see your face. “An entire society. Fell to pieces. _Just because_ you weren't smart enough to come up with a foster care program.” You laugh, and the sound is shrill. You're provoking her, you're taunting the devil, and there's a fearful high swelling in your chest as a result. “Our former queen didn't need to rule for hundreds and hundreds of years before she came up with a system to handle all the orphaned trolls. Hey – maybe your age _does_ have something to do with your ability to rule. Maybe you're starting to get a little senile.”

She's not one for playing “who's the most stoic?” Her face transforms dramatically, clearly offended. “That isn't – that's not all I had to deal – there was  _ famine _ , too!”

“So you work out a system of rations!” you cry. “You set up trade with other countries, for the supplies you need!”

“ _Saying_ things isn't as easy as _doing them!_ ” Wow – she actually growls at you. She must be frustrated. “The lusii weren't just guardians, they were _everything!_ Our food, our animal labor – who the hell ever thought an entire clade would just die off? The lusii dying was like all of the world's mammals suddenly dropping dead, it was _unheard of._ We lost all our money without them, and they went died suddenly, in _droves_. It's not my fault my empire was-!” 

She stops herself. Then, “No. No, Strider, I'm not arguing with you anymore. I'm done with this... this distracting nonsense.  _ You _ are the one in the cage and  _ I  _ am the one on the outside! I am the one who has all of the power!” You hear her shoes clack, like she's stepped back from the door. You imagine her flipping her hair, and imagine you hear her many bracelets jingling as she does so.

“You're the one in the cage,” she repeats, “with the dead brother, and the _failed_ revolution.”

“The revolution hasn't failed yet,” you say, “and that brother's death was not in vain.” Wow. You're impressed with yourself. Not a single squeak – you sounded very angry and very cool.

“That brother died face-down in the dirt,” the empress sneers. “And he died _happily. **”**_

Goosebumps raise up on your skin. The hairless, human equivalent of hackles raising? Or a result of this terrible, terrible cold that has suddenly come over you?

“I'm not going to fall for your head games,” you whisper, and to your surprise, the words seem to tremble with a terrible, barely restrained anger. “I don't have to listen to you, you fucking _murderer_. I know my brother.”

“So his cowardly death shouldn't come as a surprise,” she finishes, voice dripping with malice. “I'm tired of this visit. You're ruder than I expected you'd be. Maybe I _will_ have you tortured after all.” Then her footsteps are heading away. You glare out after her for a long time, even after silence falls and closes in around you, fitting like a glove. It's so terribly cold in your cell.

You do know Dirk. And there were times, when he probably. Willingly. Would have. But that was a long time ago, before the revolution, before the fire of the good fight made him a warrior.

Rapidly, you step away from the door and turn your back on it. You can't let that evil witch mess with your head. That was the only reason she visited you – to plant the seeds of psychological torture. And you're not going to fall for it! Dirk wouldn't die willingly. Dirk would, Dirk would want to return to his fight, to his country, he would want to return to Jake and to Mom and to Dad and to _you –_

You press your hands into your eyes. No. No tears. This is stupid. She's fucking with you. You can't get upset about something you don't even know is true.

Summoning an impressive amount of strength, you manage to force the tears down and away. You breathe deeply, take the force of it within yourself, really feel it spread to every limb, and then breathe out, feeling it slowly exit every corner of your body. You do this rhythmically, thinking of nothing else.

→

You've been through a lot in your short, fifteen years of life. You've been separated hundreds of miles from your parents, for many years at a time. You've drunken yourself into such a depressive stupor you felt as if there was no point to life, and then you've gotten so physically sick as a result that it's felt as though you've spat up all of your insides. You've run away and hidden from danger. You've faced it head-on. You've fought men larger than you, you've been forced to kill to protect those around you. You've lead food drives, and militias, and finally, an entire army.

But you've never gone without a meal for this long. You feel utterly pathetic, lying on the ground as you are, tortured by the emptiness in your stomach, because there are people who have gone longer without a meal, people who have faced starvation many times throughout their lives. _I've killed a man,_ you think, as your stomach gurgles, _my brother, I – no, no, with my bare hands, not so metaphorically, I killed a guy, and I've shot other people. I should be able to handle a little empty stomach._

_I'm weak_ , you think, _in more ways than one._ You close your eyes, and you try not to conjure to mind the many delicious things you've eaten in your life. Roasts, cakes... hell, you'd be thrilled just to be given a scrap of bread. Which, honestly, if the empress ever deigns to feed you, that's all you're likely to get.

_Please,_ you think,  _drop by with whatever maggot-infested garbage you want to feed me soon._ No. stop thinking about food. You need to distract yourself. With a wince, you roll over onto your back and start to count the bricks on the ceiling yet again. You already know there are 196, but this time you think you'll count the ones cut off, disappearing behind walls into the next rooms as fractions instead of whole numbers, and see what total you can come up with then...

There are footsteps in the hall, sometimes. You don't know if there are other prisoners here. It's so quiet... And, suddenly, it occurs to you that there might be magic to blame for that. You sit up, and your vision reels for a moment. You suck in deep breaths until it steadies, determined not to faint.

Scrambling to your feet, you press up against the door and look out of the barred slot. You see the other doors in the hall, and there's a carapace guard patrolling the length of it. He doesn't seem urgent in his ministrations; he's confident in the heavy, bolted doors' ability to hold you all inside, so confident that he has grown bored with his job. He trudges along, eyelids heavy. You pull away from the slot and wrack your brains for the right words. After a while you look out and see he has passed you by, and think, well, this is your chance to try. You press up against the window again, facing the cell opposite you. Closing your eyes, you visualize the verbal equations you need to untwist a soundproofing spell, and reach with voice and mind into the void...

Time slips and slides while you are chanting, and you must not be doing a great job at keeping quiet, because suddenly there is pounding at your door, and fingers reach between the slots to poke and shove your face away. “Hey!” You open your eyes and the guard is in your face now, shouting, “Fuck off with that shit!”

Words pour out of your mouth in a snarl and soon he's no longer shouting at you but yelping and pulling away from your cell. You see his arms flail, and imagine, for a moment, you see a puff of smoke. He smashes something repeatedly with his gloved hands and then turns to you, furious. “Dammit, you bitch! How the hell are you-?!”

He shouts down the hall until another set of heavy footsteps comes, and you back up in your cell, arms up, trying to seem as intimidating as possible while your stomach gurgles pathetically loud.

“What's wrong?” a new, second voice asks. “Why are you shouting?”

“Get a magic user down here!” the original guard roars. “Now!”

“Why-”

“That _bitch_ set me on fire!”

Oh. So that's what that spell you spat out was. You're not sure whether to be impressed with your subconscious's ability to pull complicated spells from thin air in times of danger or a little freaked out about the fact that you usually have  _no idea what you're doing_ when you're casting them. 

“Oh my,” the second guard exclaims. “How did she-? How big was the fire?”

“Not _that_ big, you fucking dunce, otherwise I'd still be fucking flaming! But she shouldn't be able to use magic _at all!_ Get Droog down here and tell the bastard to fix the blocking hex on her cell!”

You decide to worry about your magic skills later, when there aren't two guards just outside your cell with heavy weapons.

The other guard's voice shakes. “H-how could this happen, I thought they did checks on everything to make sure-”

“Well _obviously_ they didn't check thoroughly enough!”

“Oh, god...”

“Why the hell are you still here?! Go! Go get Droog!”

“Y-yes, right away!”

When the other man leaves, the first guard turns to glare into your cell. “I'm keeping my eye on you,” he snarls, white eyes narrowing. He's terribly tall. He has to hunch to get his face into the window slot. When he straightens himself, all you can see is the collar of his shirt. When the empress stands, you can see her mouth perfectly in the window, and she's pretty tall herself. You don't know if you can protect yourself, if need be – now, in addition to the hunger, the magic you've just used has left you feeling even more drained than before.

The guard grumbles and glares into the window from time to time, but he doesn't open the cell door to hurt you. Still, you never take your eyes off him. You watch him for a full fifteen minutes, and then there are footsteps, and two voices greet the first guard: the second guard, and someone else.

“Would you imbeciles care to enlighten me as to why you've dragged me out of my bed at one in the morning?” This new voice sends a shiver down your spine. There's a sinister elegance to it – he enunciates every word perfectly, making sure it drips with malice. And yet, underneath his impeccable diction, there are shades of the nastier neighborhoods in the capital. You can't see his body shape inside your cell, cannot tell where on the carapace social hierarchy he fits, but you wonder if this man isn't an upperclass rook, like most of the carapaces who have sided with the empress, but a pawn, who has had to fight and claw his way into the position he's in now...

You nearly shake your head at yourself.  _Jeez, those assumptions were pretty specific. I must be losing it with boredom in here if I'm just writing life histories for total strangers._

“Droog, your technique's getting rusty. This girl set me on _fire_.”

“There is nothing wrong with my technique.” The new voice again, this time tinged with a controlled anger. This new guy, he must be the Droog they were talking about.

“W-well, something's gotta be wrong, if she managed to use magic.” The first guard, the big guy, all that anger he was using to bully people earlier is fading away. You wonder if this Droog fellow has a menacing face to match that voice of his.

“I checked every cell in this dungeon. I assure you, there is no trouble with _my_ hexes.”

“M-maybe she undid it herself,” the second guard suggested. “Maybe she did, you know, that thing you magic people do, and she just... messed it up, enough to do a little spell.”

No protest from Droog. The first guard piped up again. “Just, come on, Droog, check it – what if? You know. Something happens. The empress...”

“Get out of my way,” Droog cut in, coldly, and you watch as the massive guard's neck disappears from the window of your cell. The person who moves in front of it, you can see his eyes and – he has a sour face, but he isn't nearly as terrifying as you thought he'd be. Either you've become desensitized to scary-looking people, or these men have learned from experience not to make this Droog fellow angry.

He shuts those eyes, brow furrowing, and begins to murmur. A darkness seems to encompass the door, twisting lazily as it spills between the airtight cracks and crawling along the tiles of the floor. You tense up mentally, protecting yourself from any invasion of grimdark while knowing that his aim is to analyze the workings of the cell, not you. But you put up a wall, anyway, to be cautious.

And then the tendrils of darkness dissipate, and he opens his eyes, white gaze instantly meeting yours.

“Take me to the empress,” he says to the other men. You stare right back into his eyes, until you can faintly make out the darker, off-white of his irises from the rest of his eye.

→

You do not know what day it is, nor how many days you have been in this cell, but you chance to guess it has been some time since Droog visited, because in the time since he and the others left, you have fallen asleep, and awoken, alone.

At one point, the big guard fiddles with your door and a mechanism at the bottom, clicks, and a slot at the bottom opens. He slides in a tray with some food and a canteen of water before closing the slot back up. You've devoured half the food and are sucking down the water from the canteen before you realize you should've probably put a spell on the food, tried to see if it was poisoned or cursed or something. You feel guilty and greedy and like a failure, making such simple mistakes. You need to be more cautious. _This is life or death here,_ you think, but it doesn't feel real at all. Your head still throbs (less now that you've eaten), but miraculously, you have no other wounds that the enemy could have left to fester. You wonder if, ironically, getting captured saved you from facing greater injuries during the course of the battle.

Hours and hours after you have finally been fed, the clacking footsteps return, and you sit up as quickly as a dog responding to a bell. Eventually, the footsteps stop outside of your door and you see those hot pink lips smiling at you yet again.

“Roxy,” she croons. It's the first time she's ever referred to you by your name. It's also the first time in days you've heard your name spoken out loud by another person.

“We got off on the wrong foot the other day,” she continues. “I'd like to think of you as my guest here – don't snort at me! I'm serious!”

“You have me locked in a cell,” you say, dryly.

“Yes, a cell with no noise dampening spells, plenty of oxygen, and a window into the hall!” The lips twist around her sickly sweet, mocking tone. “You're not just a guest – you're an _esteemed_ guest. And even though you've been very ungrateful for my hospitality – being all _rude_ to me the other day, plus I _heard_ what you did to my guard, you little wench – I'd like to give you a way to make it up to me.”

“Not interested,” you reply.

She huffs, and you think she stamps her foot. “Shut up! You haven't heard my offer yet!” How the hell does somebody so emotionally volatile get so many followers? You bit your tongue, if only out of curiosity.

“I think,” she says, “I'd be perfectly safe letting you leave the castle. I'd even let you return to your little revolution. But, see, I know running a big group can be _so_ hard sometimes, so I'd like to cut you a deal. You leave here, alive. In exchange, you tell me who the more... vocal dissidents are in your group. The people threatening your authority. The blowhards. The _corrupt_.” The way she says the word is so filled with condescension that you're actually baffled she'd ever think you'd fall for this.

“No,” you say. “Absolutely not. There's no way in hell!”

“Oh come _on!”_ she whines. “Don't you want to see your mommy and daddy and all your little revolutionary friends again?! What's a couple of dead assholes in exchange for seeing your loved ones? You kill people all the time!”

“I'm not working with you!” you snap. “And I'm certainly not going to hand over dissidents to you – what, so you can bribe them for information on how to take my organization down? I'd rather die in this cell!” You're baffled – how? How is this person such a powerful ruler?

The pink lips pout. “Fine! So don't give me your dissidents – give me your small fries! Your useless members who never learn. I'll pick them off real subtle, everyone will just think they got caught in the crossfire of some street fight which, let's be honest, that's usually how the useless ones die...”

“You are so _obsessed_ with murder!” you cry. “You don't even want information from me – you just want to kill people!”

“In case you haven't noticed, that's my thing,” she snorts. “Back in the old days we subjugated the lowbloods, but now I'm just thinking, you know, to hell with even keeping them around for labor! We've got other species on this continent for that – just fucking kill all of the warmer castes, be rid of those fuckers sullying our gene pool once and for all.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” you shout. “Just let me die in this fucking cell, so long as it keeps me from being complicit in your genocide!”

She laughs. The sound is, as laughter in such a situation is wont to be, quite cruel. “How about this: you let me deal with your worthless and your dissidents, and I not only let you live, but I tell you what happened to Dirk. Where he was, this entire time. Why he couldn't return to you.” She leans so her lips are almost touching the bars, and she says, “I'll tell you _who killed him_.”

_I killed him._ “You killed him,” you say. “He's been here, in the castle. You tortured him for months, and then you killed him, and then you pulled that...  _stunt_ to destroy my troops' morale, but it won't work, and I will  _not_ let you dismantle everything he – everything I worked for!”

Her lips purse. Curl. “One tidbit I'm willing to share, one teaser I'm willing to tempt you with, is this: I am not the one who killed your brother.”

“Some lackey of yours, then.”

“No – that day at the battle. When I brought out his head. That was the first time his body entered this castle in the past several months.” You can see her eyes now, boring into yours. “I am not responsible for your brother's death!”

“I don't have to believe you,” you snap. “Get away from me.”

“I'm _not!_ ” She smashes her hands against the door. “I _didn't_ kill Dir – that brother of yours! And if you want to know his real fate, you _have_ to work with me! I'm the _only one_ who knows what happened to him!”

“Then the secret can die with you!” you shout. “Because I'll never believe a word that comes out of your mouth! So just! _Go!_ ”

Her eyes widen and her mouth sags, and she looks. Hurt. Then her eyes narrow and she grits her teeth, and she snarls, “ _Fine!_ Just...  _die_ , then!”

She storms away, the guards' footsteps stumbling after her. You turn angrily away from the door of your cell to the solid, windowless back wall. Your whole body is shaking. You try to breathe but – you are angry, you are hungry, and you are  _tired._ You flex your fingers into fists, and, in a rage, you grab your canteen from where you stacked it in the corner of your cell and hurl it at your cell door. It ricochets and smacks you in the knee, and you are angrier because now you're hungry and you're afraid  _and_ your knee throbs to match your head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did the opening lines of this chapter hit you with a bizarre sense of deja vu? It's not just the similarity to roxy's kidnapping in canon. Roxy coming to in the royal dungeon is deliberately mirrored to Dirk waking up in the Felt Mansion in the first chapter of Pound of Flesh


	27. Act 4, Part 5: Voices of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been planning the scenes you're about to read literally since chapter one. The first scene has been planned since the earliest drafts of something rotten. I'm nervous I haven't foreshadowed it well enough, though...  
> in any case, have faith in me and my writing ability. If this scene seems to jump the shark, trust me when I say it definitely isn't. Naw – i'm saving the REALLY ridiculous shit for the final chapter.

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Eight: Voices of the Dead

* * *

 

Cold creeps from the edges of your room until a soft mist forms, curling along the floor like the tentacles of the horror terrors long wiped from the sea. You are reminded of your lusus. She's been dead for about a decade now, but when she was alive, she was larger than life, literally, of course, because she was a massive creature, and figuratively, because you've always been what Droog so delicately calls “a big-mouthed woman.” You used to spin tales about your lusus not unlike those foretold in the old grimoires of dark magic, and elevated her magical prowess. She wasn't just a demon, with a smooth voice and blood of magical properties unheard of in any other living creature, oh no. She was a harbinger of the apocalypse. That voice she used to coax mortals into signing over their souls for the aid of her magic, you said, could also let loose a cry that would bring the entire world to ruin. And she hadn't chosen _you_ in that way most lusii choose their charges _,_ no; you chose _her._ You controlled _her._ These were the myths you told, to ensure your fear-fueled clutch on the people of Alternia. You turned her into a greater monster than she already was, and you. You turned yourself into a monster, too.

You are sitting in an ornate armchair, the grandest piece of furniture in your room aside from the massive mirror across from you. It makes the already large, empty room seem larger and emptier, and in it, you watch the mist slip along the floor, close in to where you're sitting, and curl around your leg. You shiver, cross and recross your legs, try to shut out the mist with thoughts of your lusus but it is no use, because it comes. They come. You squeeze you eyes shut.

“Meenah.” The voice is like ice. “Don't be such a child – closing your eyes won't make us go away.”

It just so happens that right now, at this very moment, it has been 4 days and 13 hours since they died. You have dared not speak their names, even as they called yours from the corners of the castle. Superstition has taught you well. Speak the name of the damned, and they will never stop haunting you.

If you would wait, if you would ignore them entirely, the myths of your dead country tell you that these... creatures will soon leave you be. But patience, Meenah, has never been your strong suit.

You open your eyes and in the mirror you see them staring back at you. The woman stands to the side of your plush throne, that long cigarette holder in her hands, smoking rising off its end. Those teeth like knives flash cheekily at you. The boy stands behind your chair, to the other side, so that these two specters frame you. His face is solemn, as usual. They both look the same as they did in life, barring the dripping wounds inflicted right before they died. You look at the nasty, flayed edges of the woman's hard, dark flesh and imagine it's close to what you'd see if the boy were to turn around and show you his back, where the Felt shot him as he ran.

Carapaces always have those awful, white eyes, but now the boy's got them, too, and you try not to let their gaze chill you to the bone. “We're not bothering you for no reason, you know,” he says. “There is a purpose to our being here.”

The woman bites the end of her cigarette holder and grins at you. An annoying habit one would have hoped she would have shed since entering the afterlife. “We have terribly interesting information,” she says. “Concerning our dear husband.”

“I don't _care_ ,” you huff. “Just go away.”

The woman gasps and brings her hand to her chest in mock-surprise. She is gentle in her touch, you notice, careful not to dig into the mess of blood and flesh that was once smooth skin and the bodice of a lovely dress. “Acknowledgement! Oh, Dirk, it seems you win! She really didn't have the mettle to ignore us until we just went away.” She winks at you. “ _ I _ believed you could do it, Meenah.”

You clench your fists. “Shut up! I don't care about what you have to tell me, just go away! I was finally free of you two, but you both had to come back from the dead  _ just _ to make fun of me!”

“We're not making fun of you!” the woman says, offended.

“Only Snow is,” the boy points out. “I haven't said a single thing to you that can be misconstrued as offensive.”

The woman sticks her tongue out at the boy, and it's a terrible, decayed, purplish color. You stand up and they step back, even though you can't really touch them. “Stop it!” you shout. “Just stop it!”

You're tired of using their ghastly reflections to communicate with them and so you whip around to look at them where they stand... only to see that there is no one there. You look at your feet, and while your ankles still feel chilled, you see no mist. You look around frantically and, heart racing, you hiss, “Am I losing it-?!” before you turn back to the mirror and see their reflections still there, watching you.

“It's so _droll_ , isn't it?” the woman asks you, smile wide. She looks across the reflection of your chair to the boy and says, “it's so _funny,_ how you spent your final days chasing specters in the mirrors, and now you _are_ one!”

“What I saw weren't ghosts,” the boy replies. “Those were hallucinations.”

She scowls. “You don't know that. Felt Mansion could very easily be haunted! It's very old and very spooky, after all.”

“Yes, but I have a history of mental illness. The effect of malnourishment and psychological trauma I faced at that place could very easily be the root of my psychosis. The most mentally stable person could have been pushed to temporary mania in my situation.”

“Or! You know!” She gestures grandly. “It could be _ghosts!_ We know that's a possibility now!”

“Dammit!” You dig your hands into your hair, uncaring of how your nails catch and tug painfully. “Even in death you two won't _shut the fuck up!_ And even dead, you're bantering over me, like I'm not here!”

“Oh, Meenah, we don't mean to make you feel left out,” the woman coos.

You shake your head furiously at her. “No! Don't give me that-! That condescending bullshit! If anyone's condescending, it's gonna be me!”

You pull your hands out of your hair with a sigh. “Why the hell are you two even haunting me? Why bother, if you're just going to ignore me for each other, anyway?”

“Believe it or not, Meenah, we came back from the dead to keep you company _because_ we didn't want you to feel excluded! We want you to be in on our little corpse party!” Her cheeky grin turns apologetic. “But, really, you weren't paying attention to us, in fact, you were just now telling us to go _away_ , so I don't see why Dirk and I shouldn't be free to squabble amongst ourselves...”

“We're here because you need to be reminded of something,” the boy says. He steps forward. A phantom breeze brushes your body as his reflection steps close to yours and, despite yourself, you flinch away. “It's about Lord English. I told you something about him, before I died.”

You want to snarl some denial, to command him to get away from you, but your breath hitches and any words you might summon die in your throat. Silence hangs heavy for the first time since they appeared. Your breath mists in the air.

“Oh, Dirk,” the woman sighs. “There's not a sentimental bone in your body, is there? Why'd you have to ruin all of those nice things I tried to say to Meenah? It's always right to the point with you, no emotional foreplay allowed!”

“I'm sorry,” he says, and his brow does crinkle somewhat. “But it's just, our objective...”

“Our objective! Ever the rational prince of stats and strategy. Prince of heart – ha! Whoever gave you _that_ title? You haven't the passion to deserve that title.”

“You've never seen me give a speech against this one,” he says, bobbing his head at you. There's a playful smile on his face, but it dies away once he really looks at you. Your jaw is tight, shifting as you grind your teeth. Your eyes are narrowed. Your hands are clenched and your shoulders are squared.

“Fine,” you snarl. “Tell me whatever the fuck it is you're here to tell me. But then you two have to _leave me alone!_ ”

The last words are shouted and they echo throughout the room. After they fade, the woman sighs. “Fine. We'll leave. But only after you've heard us out.”

You turn to take back to your chair, and you notice, while their ghosts do not appear outside the mirror, you can still smell the tobacco from her cigarette. After you've settled down in your chair again and are facing the mirror, you put your legs up on the arm, sure to kick where the woman is supposedly standing. Your foot doesn't collide with anything, but it does feel as if it's been dunked in ice. She moves out of the way, scowling at you as she does so. “Meenah. Let's be adults,  _ please. _ ”

“I'm a busy woman,” you say, snapping your fingers. “Tell me what you got to tell me and be gone.”

The boy bobs his head in understanding. “Very well. Do you remember what I told you that day, before I made my final attempt at an escape? What Scratch told me?”

You shrug. “Did he really tell you anything? Or did he get all cryptic on you, that way he does?”

“He did talk in circles,” the boy admits. “But what I gathered from my discussion from him was that Lord English has an agenda, in which you, I, and all of our followers have been playing a part.”

“No shit,” you snort. “That fucker controls everything.”

“But you have even less autonomy than you think, Meenah,” the woman cuts in. “He's been using you and Dirk to kill off most of the troll population in Derse. And not just the lowbloods – the highbloods, too.”

Your brow furrows. “Yeah. I do remember Dir...” Your superstition seizes hold of you. “...The brat saying something about that. But wait – the whole point of a demon deal is, you promise something to the demon, your soul, usually, and in return, they do everything in their insanely huge power to give you something back. I  _ gave _ that fuck my soul, we all did, we have the rings to prove it, but I  _ specifically _ told him I wanted to rebuild my empire with tons of highbloods. He can't go against that, even indirectly. The contract between us shouldn't let him.”

“I know. That'd be true, if he was really a demon.” The boy pauses. Dramatic effect, you think, rolling your eyes. “But he's not.”

“Bullshit,” you say.

“He isn't,” the boy repeats. “Or at least, Snowman and I are almost sure of that fact. But, think – your lusii. You know what a real horrorterror, what a real demon looks like, and it's nothing like him.”

“I'm also familiar with lusii in general, and I can tell you that the world is packed to the gills with all different kinds of monsters. He's just a new breed.”

“Of monster, maybe. But a demon? Who uses _white_ magic? That doesn't strike you as suspicious at all?”

“He's posing as a demon,” the woman says, “and he's coming to people like us at our weakest and forcing our consent to spells that give him control over us.”

You sink deeper into your chair. You always felt as if there was something rotten going on on this continent, like the demon had some great scheme he was hiding from you all. But this? “If he's not a demon, then what the hell is he? And why does he want trolls dead, specifically?” If you had that kind of power, you'd kill all kinds of... Wait. You do. You  _ do _ have loads of power, and you  _ do  _ slaughter useless humans and carapaces block by city block.

“Likely it's blind hatred. The usual bigotry. But Scratch implied that he was searching for someone, too,” the boy says. “Using the cullings as a way to gather lots of trolls into one space.”

The woman grins. “Oh, Dirk, she already knows about that.”

You let your eyes slide away from the specters in the mirror to the corner of the room. A grandfather clock stands there. It's a nasty, garish thing, bright green. Doesn't go with the horrifying violet of the room. You didn't want it, but Scratch asked you to take it years ago, when that bitch was destroying all of the clocks in the Felt Mansion. He told you it was a family heirloom. Ha! The first thing you're going to do after these two stop haunting you is demanding your servants take the mirror and the clock away. You're sick of being reminded of the mansion. You're never going back there. No matter how dangerous it is to stay in the castle. You'd rather the mobs just carry you off.

Whoever that girl is, the one he was looking for, you've been thinking. She'd have to be dead by now. There were no limebloods left, the famines in Alternia made sure that the ones you hadn't already eliminated were taken care of. But English insisted. He kept looking...

“Let's say I believe you two,” you murmur. “Let's say I do. Maybe it'd explain something. You know, you're telling me, English, he wants to kill the trolls. Even the highbloods. But lately, not counting that battle three days ago, not many highbloods have been dying. Not since that girl took over.”

You search the boy's face for signs of emotion. There are none.

“Your sister,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. Still, no sign of movement, not a muscle twitching or eye twinkling to convey any sort of emotional response.

“No, I'm not – I'm not clarifying. I was pausing. Your sister – since she came to power, the body count has been dropping. Like, dramatically. On all sides.”

The specters don't react to this information. If anything, they seem utterly devoid of emotion. You wonder if this is the first stage, of how ghosts fade away. First their humanness. Then their physical forms.

The monster has been adamant. “Our old man really.  _ Really  _ wants me to kill your heir.”

→

The sun shines down through the glass ceiling. It's almost like – like being back in that place, what was it called? That place where smog never clung to the windows and the sky was always a bright blue. You can't remember what it's called, nor when you went to this ever-glowing city, but you know where you are now. The jungle of plants climb the walls so thickly it's like an indoor forest. You walk with your head tilted back, admiring the canopy of leaves and wild-looking flowers with their petals open to the sun. It's so beautiful here, but. It's also. Menacing, somehow. All this green. Closing in on you.

“Do you remember,” says a familiar voice, “when we were here as kids?”

Dirk is several yards away from you, watering a scary, thorny looking thing. He reaches out with the hand not holding the brass watering can to touch the leaves. Where its edge meets his hand, his skin splits, blood pouring out...

You blink and the blood, the cut, is gone. Dirk meets your gaze, gives you a small smile like it's an effort for him to lift the corners of his mouth.

“Of course I remember,” you say. “It's the royal gardens. We've lived here a long time.” It looks just like it did when you two were kids. Just as massive. But you're not kids anymore, are you?

“I'm glad to see you, Roxy,” Dirk says. He beckons to you with one finger. The action strikes you as strangely feminine. “Come here. We have a lot to catch up on.”

You take a step and space seems to fold in on itself, bringing you right to his side. You can see the freckles on his neck and smell something heady and – not foul, but unpleasant. You realize the smell is coming from the thorny plant.

“Don't touch it,” he warns. “You'll hurt yourself.”

You didn't even realize you'd lifted you hand. You smooth it by your side. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Hmm.” He reaches forward and, carefully, tugs a dead leaf free from the plant. “What about a story?”

How's a story supposed to get you caught up? If anything it's a waste of time. “I'm kind of tired of stories.”

He hums. “I'm tired of telling them.”

You hear a low whine of cicadas. What time of year is it?

“You look sad,” Dirk says. “Is something bothering you?”

You pull your gaze away from where his hands are tending to the plant. Gloves. He really needs gloves, or those thorns are going to tear his skin up. His skin is thin and pale. You look into his face and his eyes are sunken, bruised with insomnia.

“I let you go,” you say. The words leave your mouth, unbidden, and with them comes a storm. “I let you go, Dirk. I let you die. I'm so sorry, Dirk. I'm so sorry!”

Tears flood your eyes and your face contracts, painfully, with the memory of what you've done. You bite back a sob and your brother chuckles.

“I would've gone even if you hadn't let me go,” Dirk says. He's smiling at that damn plant. He chuckled at you. “It's not your fault. You couldn't have stopped me.”

The tears come to a boil. “No!” Your voice is hoarse. You sharpen it. “Dirk, don't laugh! This is serious to me!”

He cocks his head. “Why are you angry? I'm telling you that you're not responsible.”

“And I'm telling you that I've been thinking this is my fault for so long, it's – it's been ruining my life!” Your shout ends in a flutter of wings as several birds take off for other branches, away from your disturbing voice. You lower it, trying to regain some control. “Dirk I thought I'd k-killed you, please! Please don't laugh this off like some silly misunderstanding, when it's been killing me inside!”

The smile is gone as he studies your face. You clench your hands, open them, stiffly, and then try to press them to your sides.

“I'm sorry, Roxy,” Dirk says. “You're right. I shouldn't treat it so lightly.”

You swallow. “Thank you.”

You stand awkwardly by his side in silence. He continues to pick dead leaves off the thorny plant, to water it every once in a while. He apologizes for seeming so distracted. “I'll listen to anything you have to say. It's just. This thing. It's so demanding.”

“It's no problem,” you say, shrugging. “It's nice just to be near you.”

Again, your words, and their honesty, surprise you. You look at your brother's face for a reaction and see his smile isn't strained, this time. “Thank you.”

“It's no problem.”

After a few more moments of silence, you look away from Dirk, although you're sure to keep close to him. You drink in the details of this space. There are bright yellow flowers with fluffy-looking stamen, and orange and red freckles. There's another with petals in somber, patriotic purple. But the real bulk of this place is in shades of green. Vines twist around one another, swallowing the path you followed to get in here. You can't really see the door. You can barely remember where it is, what it looks-

Dirk curses and you turn to see him clutching his hand. “I'm sorry,” he says. Not to you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”

He sticks the finger in his mouth and sucks. You feel hot. He buries the finger in the hem of his shirt and you start to protest, no, you'll stain it –

“There are monsters in Derse,” Dirk says.

You think it's some heavy-handed metaphor. You smile, sheepishly. “I thought we agreed, no stories?”

“This isn't a story,” he says, hand still clutching the hem of his shirt, burying the cut finger, twisting it in the fabric. “It's a warning. There's something out there, Roxy, something bigger than you even know, and you have to be prepared to fight it.”

“I will,” you promise, hand lighting on his shoulder. You let it rest when he doesn't shrug it away. “I will, I will. Here, let me look.”

It takes some coaxing, but eventually he shows you the finger, and. You don't really know what to do with it, now that it's in your hands, so you just touch it, gently, and say, “It's not so bad.”

“You don't believe me,” Dirk says. “About the monsters.”

You push away the urge to lick the blood away. You lick your own finger and smooth it over his, wipe away the blood, but new droplets rise the moment the others are cleared away. “You're dead, Dirk. I saw...” Something rises in your throat and you swallow it down. “I saw it.”

“You... Saw it.”

“Your head. On a pike.” You bite your lip, avoid his gaze. “You're dead, so. You're not really here. Whatever you tell me, it's all. It's all just in my head. This is just a dream.”

You can feel his gaze fixed intensely on you, searching the contours of your face for whatever godly creatures there might be could guess. “Maybe you've got the sight. Like Mom.”

“No.”

“Believe in me, Roxy.” His hands are suddenly around yours and you stiffen, still avoiding his gaze. “I'm telling you that there is a danger in Derse – maybe one more ancient than the Old Ones, a danger controlling the tides of this war, you can _feel_ it, can't you? You can feel that I'm real, and it's because you're brilliant-”

“Or maybe you're the brilliant one!” you snap. You glare into his face, your jaw tight. “You always have been the brilliant one, haven't you? The golden child? The, the leader of the free world! Our parents' perfect son!” You're shaking. “I'm just copying off you, the little sister, so desperate to live up to your shadow, even now that you're-!”

“Now that I'm what? Dead? You said it before, but you can't now?” He tries to hold your gaze but you tear it away. “Are you mad at me?”

“You left me,” you sob. “You left without saying goodbye.”

You bury your face in his chest and his arms curl effortlessly around you. He makes soothing sounds as your anguish bursts forth from the very core of your lungs, shaking you, shaking him. He shushes and soothes, hand rubbing your back and you swear, you swear it's him, you swear you can feel the wetness of the material of his shirt, you swear you can feel his breath against your ear as he lowers his lips to speak into it.

“Goodbye, Roxy,” he whispers, and you wake up.

→

The first thing you see when you open your eyes is the purple ceiling of your cell. Even the damn dungeon is violet, in Derse. You can't decide if the first thing you feel when you wake up is the incessant  _ throbbing  _ of your head or the painful emptiness in your stomach. Again, the empress has left you to starve. Again, you don't know how long it's been.

You lift your hand to your face. Your eyes are sore. You wipe and your fingers and they come away wet. Another vivid dream, another bout of phantom tears... Except this time, the dream stays. This time, you remember everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was any of it real?


	28. Act 4, Part 9: Something

Act Four: A Shift in the Tides

Part Nine: Something

* * *

 

“I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Rose.”

A pause that goes on for a tick too long. “...It's too early to tell if it's a loss.”

“Rose. You mustn't keep leading yourself on like this. It will make it more painful, later.”

“I haven't foreseen her death.”

“You haven't really foreseen _anything_ to do with her as of late, and I think that you think that is just as telling.” Another pause. Then, “The spell I told you about. Are you ready to cast it?”

“...It is dangerous.”

“Yes. But you're used to such risks.”

“It'll be a greater risk than I've ever made.”

“Really? Greater than when you were forced to leave your children behind?”

Silence. Then, “Yes. But it's the only way, isn't it?”

“I never said that.”

“You never say anything outright. You always talk in circles.”

If she was able to see his face, she thinks she'd see him smiling. Something wan and thin-lipped. A smug adult dealing with a silly child.

→

You are awakened by the sound of your cell door opening.

You don't bother to peel your face off the floor. You watch with one eye as boots walk up to you. You brace yourself for your teeth to be smashed into your head, to feel the tear of your lips and to taste the tang of your own blood, but no kick comes.

“Come on,” the guard says, and he leans down and hauls you up. You thrash against him, but there's a second man, just as large, to hold you still. They lock down your wrists with cuffs made out of a heavy, impossibly dark metal. Despite the fact that they are cold, they seem to be smoking – probably, they've been treated with some sort of suppressant spell.

Each man holding one side, they drag you down the hall. The other cells are still maddeningly silent. You and your captors leave the rows of thick, securely locked doors behind, coming into a larger open space. Here, the doors are higher, longer, and you can hear screams coming from behind them. You start to struggle again, to demand, what the hell is going on here, fear and anger fueling your cries, but one of the guards grabs you tightly by the back of the neck and the two continue dragging you along, past the screams, up a long and winding staircase, and back onto the ground floor of the castle.

Your screams die against the palm of one of your captor's hands as you come out into the main hall of the castle. Where once your country’s flag was hung from the rafters, there are now black banners emblazoned with the empress's caste symbol in tyrian purple. So much of the décor has changed – there are far more golds, and flashy vases, and bright, jeweled things to balance out the once over-powering presence of violet, black, and white, but you still recognize this hall. It used to be home. You remember clutching your mother's hand as she guided you along, and if you keep heading east, and turn a corner, the tower where your family used to live is probably still there. Some of the scaffolding on the ceiling is new – there are elaborate pictures there, vanities depicting in cryptic imagery the history of Alternia, or at least that's what you guess it is, from the figures' horns. The shape of the halls seemed to have changed, and you wonder why all of the renovations before you realize than when the empress and the highbloods invaded, the castle was partially destroyed, with some outer vestiges entirely burned to the ground. Of course the empress would want to leave her mark for the hell of it, but it was probably also  _necessary_ for parts of the castle to be rebuilt.

The guards take you to another staircase, and again, you climb. Even as you leave the parts of the castle that you used to inhabit for parts you were forbidden to enter, the feeling of returning to a childhood home, only to find it ransacked and bastardized, never leaves you. The Condesce has the most hideous taste in colors and prints.

You think back to the screams in the dungeon, and wonder. That must be where they're keeping the prisoners of war, and other enemies of the state. You feel useless, for having been so close to them all this time, and yet helpless to rescue them. Even now, if you were to somehow shake your guards, you could do nothing to aid those imprisoned in this castle but perish trying.

You are brought to a high room in a veritable tower. When the doors open, the room is massive. In the center of the room is a throne-like armchair, and surrounding it are several tables and sofas. There is a large mirror across from the throne-like armchair, and everything, literally everything, has some sort of gold framing or detail-work on it. Everything except for a forest green grandfather clock standing solemnly in the corner. It clashes with the rest of the room, not as gaudy as the rest of the furniture, but still uglier for the fact that it clearly doesn't belong. Then, the level of the floor is raised, leading to a part of the room that is two steps higher that holds shelves filled to the brim with books and bizarre knickknacks – all of which you recognize as having uses for conducting grimdark spells and potions. You see dark feathers, scattered bone fragments, clumps of hair and jars of eyes. There is a small ladder that leads to a higher level, to a mezzanine that houses more shelves, surrounded by a balustrade to keep those who go up there from falling to the lower levels of the room.

Then, in the center of the room, on the wall opposite you, there is a stained glass window. The design is of a great, violet moon, partially eclipsing a smaller, yellow one. The dust clinging to the corners of each shard of glass makes you think that this window has been here a long time.

_This was the Black Queen's study,_ comes the thought, unbidden.  _The Condesce has taken it over out of principle. These supplies, they are less here because it is convenient for her to do magic in this place than because she wants to mark her territory._

The guards leave you to stand in this room alone. When the door closes behind them, you think it's stupid of them – even with your wrists bound, your legs are free to wander, and your fingers are free to pick up any object you see fit. You're about to explore the many supplies in this room, to see if there's anything here you can use to get free when the door behind you opens again. You look over your shoulder and the Condesce is striding into the room, triton clutched in one hand, her gigantic head of hair flowing behind her like a great aura of darkness. She shuts the door behind her, making sure to look you in the eye as she locks it. Your never let your gaze leave her as she walks around you, eyes flitting about your form like a lioness sizing up her prey. She comes to stand before her armchair throne, and sits on its arm. She crosses one leg over her knee, like a man would.

“I moved your brother's head to the flagpole,” she says, grinning, “but the problem with you humans is, your corpses decay terribly fast. The crows ate him and the rest fell to pieces and landed on the square. Someone cleaned him up before I could tell them to leave him there, scare whatever dissidents are stupid enough to be left. But there are none left, are there? Because your stupid allies have drained the city dry. Now I'll have to send troops out into the country, and take what I can get.”

She pauses for you to speak, but you don't. You only stare at her. After a while, the corner of her mouth twitches. Her upper lip curls back.

“I should just kill you,” she snarls.

“Then do it,” you reply. “I'm tired of hearing you ramble.”

She purses her lips. Clicks her tongue. She's angry, but you feel, somehow, that she doesn't know what to do with you. She stands up and starts to pace the space between the mirror and her chair.

“I'm wasting an opportunity here,” she says. “I should send you to be tortured. No matter how strong anybody says you are, I bet we could hold you, and I bet we could break you. Pull every secret from your head, like pulling teeth. Probably both! You'd be amazed, the way people start talking after your start literally pulling teeth. Not all of them, but the small fries. They sing like whales. Have you ever heard a whale sing? I prefer it to birds, but it's so _loud,_ it just echoes throughout your entire body. It's music you feel with your entire body. And it has no tune. But it isn't incessant, like a bird chirping. It's better.”

She keeps pacing. Her eyes flit between the floor, you, and the mirror. Surely she can see that she looks like a lunatic right now. You stand still, your head held high, silent.

“Or,” she says, stopping in her tracks. “Or. You could join me.” She swivels on her heel and turns to look at you with a manic smile. “How would you like a cut of the kingdom, Roxy?”

You blink. “Would I get to decide what I do with it?”

“No,” she says. “But you'd get to live, and we could get drunk on power together. We could be like sisters!”

You watch her face for signs of a joke. “No... I don't think that sounds like something I'd be interested in, sorry.”

Her face falls. “Of course not.” She turns on her heel and she's back to her rampant pacing. You're starting to feel deeply confused by this turn of events. You look around the room. You two are entirely alone. The end of her triton drags on the rug and the sound of it bothers you.

“I should just kill you – it won't hurt me, to have you dead, and it's what the old bastard wants!”

“What old bastard?” you ask.

The Condesce looks at you severely. “What?”

“Who are you talking about? Who wants me dead?”

Her face seems to seize. “ _Everyone!_ Everyone wants you dead, most of all me!”

“Then kill me!”

“I-!” She stares into your face for a long moment before resuming her pacing. You nearly sigh out loud.

“You're the perfect bait! You're the perfect bait, and that's the only reason I'm keeping you alive,” the Condesce tells the carpet. She looks at the mirror then, really looks at it, and seems to shake with rage. “That's the only reason! I don't care about you!” she shouts, eyes still locked on the mirror. “I don't care what she means to you, I don't care what your stupid cause means to you!”

She clutches her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Shut up! Shut up!”

You watch her, bewildered. “Are you all right?”

“You!” She opens one bloodshot eye, the strands of purple lacing the yellow incredibly strange to you, her sharp, almost clawed finger pointing right at you. “I don't want your sympathy! Don't mother me!”

“I'm not mothering you,” you huff. “I was just asking-”

You're cut off as she cries out, her head tilted as she bellows at the ceiling with all of her might. You take a step back, preparing yourself for however she might end up taking out her frustrations on you, and inadvertently follow her gaze. There is a chandelier on the ceiling, hanging just above the center of the room.

Behind you, someone outside the room starts pounding on the door. The guards shout from behind the door – your imperiousness! Are you okay?

“Shut up!” the Condesce shouts. “Shut up, everyone!”

She sends a powerful burst of magic in your direction, and you dodge... But she wasn't aiming for you. She sent a piece of furniture that was behind you to rest up against the door, keeping her guards outside and you trapped inside.

“Enough,” she snarls. “Enough debate. This ends now, Strider!”

You swear her eyes are crackling with light in a thousand colors. She stands before you, menacing, the energy pouring off her in such a great force that you can feel it, just standing before her, like waves crashing over your prone form, the sheer power biting deep into your skin the way ice-cold water does when it hits you by surprise. She rears up before you, her triton clutched in her grip, her fingernails like claws, her gritted teeth razor-sharp, and she is a monster

Bracing yourself for her first attack, you hold your ground and find your center. You reach into the very core of yourself. Deeper, deeper, you feel as if you are dissolving into the void of the galaxy itself. Air rushes past your face. The universe stretches out around you at all angles as if you are flying, yet you still feel your feet planted firmly on the floor of the Condesce's private study. In fact, you can feel everything – you can feel the strings tying everything and everyone together, not just connecting, but building, compiling. You feel the Condesce, her power, and you pluck a string.

She cries out and you open your eyes to find that, even though you are several feet away from each other, you have used the sheer force of will to rest her triton from her hands and fling it aside, sending it crashing through the mirror. It shatters and glass goes everywhere, forcing the Condesce to shield herself.

With a power that has been lying dormant in you seemingly your entire life, you bid the chandelier to yank itself from the ceiling, bits of plaster crumbling from where it's removed, the wire holding it up snapping as you pummel it with force. The Condesce makes as if to run at you, but you just... make sure she cannot reach you, make it so when she grabs for your neck it is like letting go of a slingshot, and she is sent, soaring, smacking into the back wall of the room. She groans, she snarls, she makes as if to get up but you have the chandelier and you send it, with all of your might, crashing into the window, and more glass flies into the room but your don't feel it, not really, because all of your focus is on following the chandelier out of the window, into freedom, and you feel, you feel your skin crawl away from the flying shards of glass, you feel the dark close in like a protective layer of armor around your body, and you are free. You let out a wild whoop of laughter as you follow the chandelier out of the castle. You are seven stories above the ground. And you are as free as a bird.

♠

He says it almost without thinking. “I wish I'd gotten to say goodbye to my family.”

“Is that why you've been hovering around the girl? Did you ever manage to reach her?”

“I think so. I hope so.” A pause. “If you could say goodbye to anyone, if you got just one last goodbye before your soul was finally laid to rest. Who would you pick?”

She laughs. “What a sentimental question, and coming from you!”

He chuckles. “Death has made me soft, I suppose.”

“Ha! That's a decomposition joke, isn't it? Well, my parents have been dead for years, as has my husband, so chances are if my soul is to be laid to rest, I'm to meet them all soon in Hell.” She pauses, then. Really thinks. “I suppose if I knew I was going to die, I would've used my last breath to tell you it was all going to be alright.”

He is silent for a long moment. “It would've been a lie.”

“Yes, but I'm the expert on everything. You would've believed me. And you'd have felt better.”

“Shut up,” you snap. You're so tired of these specters, gabbing away. Their words will ring in your ears for centuries to come, you're sure of it. “I thought I told you two to leave.”

“You did, but suppose we spirits don't actually have rules,” the woman says with a leer. Her sharp teeth and her white eyes seem even more menacing than before, as if death has magnified them. “Or suppose we aren't spirits at all. Suppose we are all in your head.”

“I'm not a weakling,” you whisper. “Not like Dirk. Not like Damara.”

The woman makes a show out of acting surprised. “Finally – you've spoken the names of the dead! I'm disappointed, though, that you've said Damara's before mine.”

You don't reply. Slowly, you rise, walking amongst the shards of glass. Light shines in from your now ruined window, impossibly bright, and if you did not have a mission to fulfill, you would be rushing out of its gaze. It's so bright, so hot, and you feel as if there should be fire, you feel as though the girl should have attacked you more viciously before she ran.

Outside, the guards are pounding on the door. What's wrong? What's wrong? They heard the crash and they fear for your safety.

“Shut up!” you scream, voice hoarse, and the pounding stops for about a minute before it starts up again. They want to see if you're okay. Are you okay, Meenah?

You lean down and pick up a large, violet shard of glass. You run your fingertip along it and a line of tyrian purple rises to the surface and thickens as the blood gathers. You nod. Then you walk to the nearest table, and lay your hand down.

“I'm not a weakling,” you whisper. “Not like Dirk, not like Damara, and not like you, Snow! _I_ am the one who will make it to the end of the story! _I_ am the one who has the power!”

And with that, you plunge the sharp edge straight down onto where your ring finger meets your knuckle.

→

The darkness falls away and you awaken in the embrace of a bush. The flowers are soft and white and you let one tickle your cheek before you lift your head up, and climb, with effort, out of the bush.

You look up. Seven stories above you is the now shattered window of the empress's private study.

_Where did I land?_ you wonder.  _And how the heck am I alive right now?_

You look around. Several feet away, totally decimated, is the chandelier. You don't know how you managed to avoid landing on it, but you're glad you didn't – that thing has enough sharp edges to have rendered your escape pointless.

Wherever it is you've landed, vines curl and twist around the outer walls of the castle, leaves so thick they seem to form a membrane on the stone. Your gaze leaves the wall and trails the rest of the open space, this... courtyard, you would call it, if the wall farthest from you wasn't so small, so broken. The plants here are unruly and many. You cannot even see any semblance of a path, for the entire ground is covered in leaves, alive and dead. It is mostly a mass of green, but there is the odd wild flower in rich, patriotic violets, and there's a flower with yellow petals speckled in orange and red. Gnarled vines reach for the sky and many fat leaves form almost a canopy over the grounds, almost providing a shelter from the harsh glare of the sun...

You push your way past some unruly thickets, careful not to cut your hand on any of the nastier plants, while also kind enough not to trample on and destroy anything here. You don't stop until you're in front of what is left of the wall. It's made of glass – thick glass. With some digging, yanking, you could probably pull the foliage woven thickly along the ground away to find the rest of the wall's shards. You've landed in the remains of the royal garden.

_It saved me,_ you think, half-serious,  _the castle saved me_ . It's so quiet out here, so peaceful. Beyond the wall are the royal grounds, grown half as wild as the gardens. There are crumbled bits of stone here, entire pillars there, and you think, this part of the castle, they haven't rebuilt it. They let it burn to the ground, they bombed it to bits, and then when they left it too long and the plants grew out of control they just sealed the rest of the building off from here, left these ruins open to the elements. No one comes here because it is dangerous, what is left is unstable and always falling, and so you are safe. You don't know how you know this, but you do, and you let out a whoop of laughter because that silly thought is true.  _The castle saved me_ .

You laugh louder than you mean to and you crush your hand to your face to stifle the sound. You laugh and laugh until tears come streaming from your eyes, and you have to crouch down because the tears are overwhelming you physically now, the castle saved you, your childhood home saved you, you brother told you in a dream this would happen, in cryptic imagery, and now you are crying. You are crying because you are happy to be alive, but also because you nearly just died. You cry because there are people locked in this dungeon you have no way to help right now, people who might die, and painfully so. You cry because many people have died over the past few years, people you loved, people you barely knew, people you would never know, all of them so young, too young to die, because who is ever old enough to die? You cry because you are a teenager, you are just a kid, and you have done so little and lost so much.

And, finally, most of all, you cry because your big brother died, and you  _miss him._ You're probably always going to miss him, even if you somehow, miraculously, live long enough that the amount of life you've lived without him exceeds the length you knew him.

When your fear of being pursued finally outweighs your emotional exhaustion, you wipe the tears from your face and stand up, searching,  _there,_ something tells you,  _there's the fastest way out,_ and you slip silently from the castle and sink, like a shadow, into the dark corners of the city.

→

You follow your impulses to a base the organization used some time last autumn. The woman who asks you for the password starts like she's seeing a ghost, and your entrance to the base is, at first, met with utter silence. And then a roar of joy. A big guy hauls you up on his shoulders, and you have to steer him by the hair to get through the mass of reaching hands to where your parents stand, their mouths open, usually stoic faces more expressive than you have ever seen them.

Your reunion with them is a blur of kisses and tears. Everyone wants to hear your story – where were you? Did you see where they took the other prisoners?  _ How did you get out? _ You tell them almost everything, leaving out your dream about your brother and the fact that you had a clear shot of the empress. Even now, thinking privately to yourself, you have no idea why you let her live. Logically, if you'd killed her, you could've just about ended the entire war. Weakened her side. Stormed the castle on the spot.

_ No _ , a voice, strangely similar to Dirk's, whispers in the recesses of your mind.  _ There's something rotten going on in Derse – and it would go on fine without the Condesce. _

→

The momentum you take up upon your return doesn't relent. Cheers of joy at your return dissolve into the hustle and bustle of planning. You're going to attack the castle again, while the empress's army is weak. But your forces are massively depleted, too, and so this time, you'll be banking less on force and numbers and more on infiltration. Agents planted into the ranks of the castle months ago are waiting for the signal. In mere days, they'll be getting it.

Your chest thrums. You have the feeling that this war is approaching a finale of sorts.

Your parents barely leave your side. While you sign documents, approve plans, your father chatters about how happy he is you're alive, while your mother hovers, silent, a hand always clutching your coat or your shoulder.

Your father leaves you regretfully to talk to his troops, and when you and your mother finally get into a room alone she throws her arms around you and just. Holds you close. “I'm so glad,” she whispers, between frantic kisses to your face. “Oh, god, oh, whatever power drives this universe, thank you, thank you for sparing me at least  _ one _ of my children.”

She pulls her tear-stained face from your chest and swipes her arm over her eyes. She laughs. “My makeup looks terrible, I'm sure...”

“You're fine,” you assure, your voice soothing. “It's very chic. A very post-modern look for you.”

She means to laugh but it comes out as a sob. “Oh, Roxy, I – I'm so happy to see you alive!”

Eventually, you get her to calm down enough that she isn't crying so hard. You feel horrible for thinking it, but you're... you're actually bewildered at how happy everyone, even your parents, are to see you. You're almost high with the realization of how...  _ important _ you actually are, not just to the people you love, but to legions.

You almost can't believe that this is your life.

You settle down with your mom into the most comfortable seats in the room, careful to keep close together. She strokes your hands.

“I've got a spell,” she says. “Something I want to try, during the siege. I want to run it by you first, though.”

You shake your head. “You have more formal training on that stuff than I do. If you think it'll help the cause, then I trust your judgement.”

She falls silent. Formal training... your mom is a regular grimdark prodigy. She would've gone on to university if not for becoming pregnant with you. Maybe...

“Hey, Mom?” Her eyes are immediately on you, and for some reason, the stupidity of your question hits you. “No, wait. Nevermind.”

“Roxy.” she squeezes your hand.

“It's dumb.”

“I'm sure it isn't.”

You hesitate. “...Some cultures. Some people believe in ghosts, don't they?”

“Some cultures,” your mother confirms, careful.

“What about...” You trail off, think, and try again. “Is it possible... with magic... to talk to the dead?”

“No,” your mother says, almost instantly.

“Not at all? There's nothing recorded-?”

“There are always records, Roxy,” your mother replies. She sounds exasperated – not with you, but with the hysterical record-keepers of history. “That doesn't mean people are telling the truth. How can they be, when it's so rare?”

You hesitate. “Mom, I. You know how I told everyone I escaped. With magic. No, don't start.” You put up your hand, even physically rejecting her praise before it can leave her mouth. “I get it now, Mom. You don't have to say anything. I'm a little more powerful than average.” She gives you a look. You scowl. “Fine – I'm. I'm _really_ powerful.” She smiles. “But what I told everyone, see, that wasn't even the entirety of it.”

You swallow. She's rapt with attention and you think, _Well, with a lead in like that, she'll never let me back out. So it's now or never._ “I had this dream. About Dirk.”

And you tell her all about it – you tell her about the garden, and how it figured into your survival. You tell her about the symbolism, and about the deep tug in the core of your being, in your soul, maybe, telling you there was meaning. You tell her about what Dirk told you, about there being an evil in Derse.

You tell her that you knew that you had the power to kill the Condesce, but you didn't, because something far deeper in yourself told you it would make no difference if she lived or died.

When you finish, you mother doesn't say anything for a while. She meets your gaze, bites her lip, and then drops her gaze to her hands. “You know,” she says, “that sometimes, Seers cannot See. A course of fate is blocked to them. Sometimes this happens naturally, because there are far too many outcomes. Sometimes this happens because it is a problem with the Seer – she cannot see because of her power, because it's too weak. Or because it's being blocked, by any number of things.”

“Like... stress?” You know your mom has problems, sometimes. Seeing the future. You just don't understand why she's bringing up her own shortcomings right now.

“Yes. Like stress.” Your mother pauses. “Before you were born... I had never had stress block my visions. And I had plenty of stress to deal with – the fear of your father and I being found out. The way people looked at me, the pregnant teenaged girl, waiting for me to fail out of school and ruin my life. There was your brother's birth. There was also my mother's constant resentment to deal with, and later, her attempts to usurp my parenthood of Dirk.

“Did you know she taught him to call her mama? She got him into the habit of calling me Rose, like I was his sister. He was too young when this happened for him to ever remember but for some reason he just. Never grew out of the habit of calling your father and I by our first names.” She chuckles, although you can tell by the way she bites her lip and averts her eyes that she doesn't think it's funny at all. “Even enduring all of that, I could still... I could make the magic work enough that I could at least see why I could not See the paths, in those unpredictable instances. I Saw Dirk's gender, before he was born. I guessed, give or take, the day he would be born. But you. You, I couldn't so much as figure out if you'd be a premature birth or right on time, or. Or a miscarriage. No matter how hard I tried, I saw nothing of your future. Not a single path. Later, I figured it was because your father and I were at a critical junction of our lives: we were deciding whether or not to run away from home, whether it was right for us to flee to Derse. I thought our decision must drastically effect your birth.

“And then, when you were an infant, when I was in times of great stress, I suddenly wouldn't be able to See the outcomes of certain decisions. Trying harder made the magic come even more flimsy. And I thought I was done for.”

She pauses, to swallow. Her brows are crinkling and there's something in her eyes, a shine, and, oh, god, you hope she doesn't cry again.

She doesn't. “But then I put you and your brother on the train to Prospit, and. Almost immediately. Almost immediately I could See again. It was like being a schoolgirl again, just discovering my gifts. I was indispensable to the rebel organizations your father and I became involved with.”

Finally, she meets your gaze. “But then you came back. And my visions disappeared with you.”

You stare at her, slack-jawed. “I-I'm sorry, I. I'm sorry I stress you out so much I screw up your...”

Your mother laughs. “No, Roxy. That's not what this is about.” Her face grows suddenly, frighteningly stern. “It is time for you to truly understand the depths of your power.”

She grabs your hand and you almost tug it away, before realizing that her grip is gentle, loving. “Even when you were a baby, your power was enough to involuntarily block mine. It was like... like you plummeted my powers into a vast and unyielding void. Even when we left you at Nepeta's, and we were miles away from each other, my visions sometimes wouldn't come to me. You need to face facts, Roxy: you were made for something truly great. Something... _incredibly_ important.”

You can't help yourself – you laugh. You're finding today that in times of great emotional strain you tend to respond with inappropriate laughter. “What something? What do you See for my future?”

“Nothing.” Her face is solemn. “I told you. I have never been able to read your paths.”

Your mouth twitches involuntarily and you try to turn it into a playful grin. “Then how can you tell I'm meant for something?”

“Call it intuition? But not Sight. Your brother-” She stops, swallows. Tries again. “I was able to See that he was dead. I probably knew of his impending death for far longer than I even realized.”

“L-like, when he first went missing?”

“No.” She closes her eyes. “I think... I think I could feel it, when he first asked to join the revolution. Or maybe that was the normal sort of fear a mother feels – there was no vision, after all. But sometimes there aren't. Sometimes they come as... intense, _sure_ feelings.” 

You mean to ask her about that, but she squeezes your hand and says your name in such a plaintive voice that you cannot bring yourself to talk over her.

“Roxy, There are forces at work here. Powerful ones. And...” She swallows. “Dirk. Or. Whatever was taking Dirk's form. Was trying to warn you of something. And if those powers were trying to warn you... then they must think _you_ can stop it.”

You remember a story your mother told you, a long, long time ago. An old human story. One of the last ones to have the bulk of its original text preserved. You speak the words almost without thinking, editing them to fit the situation: “There's something rotten in the state of Derse...”

Your mother smiles sadly, those tears returning to her violet eyes. “ _Hamlet_ was always your brother's favorite.”

♠

Blood is still pouring from your hand when he arrives. The guards fall silent all at once, as though someone cut the sound out. Then the door seems to melt around his hulking form, resuming its shape the moment he is entirely inside the room. You spare his blood-spattered claws a glance before your gaze returns to the shattered mirror. Although you hardly care what you see in it anymore.

“It doesn't matter what we do to the ring, does it?” You speak in a whisper. You're just so tired.

“You will never get away from me. I will never let you die.” The demon's face is unmoved by your sorrow. The demon's face is unmoved by emotion, which is befitting, you think, because he probably does not feel much aside from anger and hatred.

You give him your dirtiest look. “I know you're getting weaker.”

“Not weak enough. To fail to overpower you. Should you try to escape me.”

His breaths come ragged. You look away, disgusted. With him, for all he has done to you. With yourself, for all you have done for him.

“There is no hope for you in the world, Meenah. The people will tear you limb from limb.”

“Shut up, you scum,” you snarl. “And fix this wound, if you're so bent on keeping me alive.”

You take it back – they weren't weak. They were immensely brave, far braver than you. You see that now. You want to join them, but you don't know if you can. You don't know...

 


	29. Final Act: Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus, i'm so swamped with shit for finals, I almost forgot to post this today!
> 
> enjoy :)

Final Act: Victory

* * *

 

For the first time in what seems like forever, I wake up feeling like I didn't spend the entire night fighting my bed to the death. My head is totally free of pain, and to the best of my knowledge, I didn't have any wacky dreams last night. Best of all, I'm not exhausted! Gleeful, I decide to show off my newfound power by switching on the lights with a snap of my fingers. And another snap. Aaaand another snap. It takes me, like, five tries to get the light on. I almost have a full-on panic attack before I remember the strain feats of magic put on a person's body. Considering that yesterday I nearly took down an evil witch, smashed a huge window with a billion pound chandelier, and kept myself from dying after leaping out a several hundred foot high tower, my magic is _probably_ drained. Bummer! But hopefully it'll be back a few days from now. I don't have the formal education to do any complicated stuff like body-cloaking, but I can probably mute a few gunshots and blast some castle walls to smithereens. I almost feel bad thinking that, after the castle gardens helped me get home-free yesterday, but I figure my traumatic war experience isn't complete until I'm forced to destroy my childhood home and look upon the wreckage with a steely warrior's eye.

I come out of my room and, right away, people are greeting me good-morning. People have jumped on my case from dawn until dusk since I was thrust into leadership, but they're even  _more_ demanding of my attention than usual since my heroic (heroine-ic?) escape from Her Imperious Evilness's clutches.

With some effort, I manage to pull away from a throng of people so I can grab my dad's attention. He's standing around with a bunch of old guys, looking over maps, but when he sees me he shoos them away and welcomes me with open arms.

I hug him hard. He makes a noise of pain and tries to mask it with some dad-ish,  _Jeez, kid, you're so strong, you're gonna crush your old man_ type comments, and it's seeing the way he's leaning on his (sheathed) sword that I'm reminded of his injury. He's kind of  _like_ an old man, I mean, with his bad leg, and the way all the fighting has aged him and Mom. They still look great for parents, but they look older than their early thirties.

“Hey, Roxy, I've been meaning to ask you.” He rubs his neck. “I know you said you didn't really see anybody else while you were captive, but I just wanted to make sure – you didn't hear about the Mayor? No guards ever talked about him, even?”

I shake my head. “I never heard about any other prisoners.” Although on that final trek to my showdown with Her Condesce, I did hear... I shudder involuntarily at the reminder of those screams. That's the first thing we're going to do when we seize the castle, I decide. Release all our allies, then lock up all the soldiers guarding the castle we'll have hopefully subdued. I resist the urge to want to give our imprisoned allies the chance at revenge on their captors by means of the same torture.

My dad isn't hiding the fact that he's upset all that well. “I'm sorry,” I say, sincere, but he waves my concern away.

“Part of war is dealing with this kind of thing,” he says. “And I'm a veteran; I've seen this all before.”

We walk a little together, and we don't bring up the Mayor anymore. After our physical distance has gotten us metaphorically far enough from that subject, I ask Dad where Mom is. He shrugs.

“She's meeting some guy she calls 'her ally.'”

“Who's that?”

He shrugs again. He doesn't look happy. “I don't know, she won't tell me much about him. She's been scaring me though, these last few days. She locked herself up with her spell books and her crystal balls, and she wouldn't come out for anything. I thought she was going to try something drastic. I mean, we thought you were...” He trails off. “But you're back. So I'm sure whatever she's doing, it's fine.”

I must get pretty lost in thought about what he's told me, because before I know it, I'm bumping into somebody. “Oh, Jeez, sorry about that...”

I blink. Then again, as if her image will disappear. She scowls at me. “Watch where you're going, princess.”

“ _Akatos?_ ” Then, “Don't call me princess!”

She rolls her eyes and resumes carrying whatever the huge bundle of weapons, hastily wrapped with the barrels and butts still sticking out, over her shoulder. She hurries to catch up with some other people moving weapons, and I turn to look at my dad in shock.

He smiles sheepishly. “She said she didn't care about leadership, she just wanted to help. I mean, she's bitter, because she's her-”

“But who _wouldn't_ be bitter,” I mutter. Despite myself, I smile. “No, I'm okay with this. This is as much her war as it is ours, and she deserves to be on the front lines.”

“I'm just glad she decided the cause was more important than her pride!” He laughs, and I join in, hesitatingly, but I feel uncomfortable. It's something about what he said, but I'm not sure what.

→

The morning of our final battle, Mom squeezes my hand and tells me she loves me.

“I love you, Roxy. The happiest day of my life was when you were born.” Her smile wanes, though she tries to bolster it. “The second happiest day of my life was when you came back from the castle alive.”

She bites her lip, painted black, looking as ever like a mistress of the dark arts. “Roxy, I – I just want to take this opportunity to apologize. I feel as though the last few times we have tried to talk about... about your father and I, I've been passive aggressive. And I know it's a source of great pain for you. You didn't ask to be born in such circumstances, and here I am, constantly getting offended as if _I'm_ the justifiably normal one-”

I'm shocked she's bringing this all up now. Right before the biggest day of our lives! I try to cut in. “Mom.”

“Roxy, no, let me apologize.” Her hands slip from mine even as our eyes lock. “I'm sorry. If we survive-”

“ _When_ we survive.”

She does genuinely smile at that, lips turning up helplessly at the corners. “ _When_ we survive. You can ask me anything. You can tell me anything that weighed on you. Even if it isn't a question, even if it's merely something you have to vent to me, something that's been crushing your chest for years, I'll hear it. And I won't be petty, even if I defend my decisions.”

I shrug. “I'm not going to make you justify something to me that brought me into existence.” I think I mean it when I say it, too. It's true, that this family secret has wreaked havoc on me since I was a kid, but. Even as I dance around the word, I think, in a way, I've come to terms with it, at least enough so that I can put my hand on my mother's shoulder and affirm that I love her. Maybe I'm just learning to push it away like regular people do with whatever their big family catastrophes are. Or maybe it truly doesn't hurt anymore. I feel like it's been so long since I've even thought about it, let alone since I lamented it.

I watch her disappear into the crowd of magic users getting ready to go to their positions. She seems to dissolve before my very eyes and a wave of panic rushes over me, and I have the urge to take her by the hand and flee Derse, to get as far as possible, but I crush the feeling down and just keep moving to where I'm needed. Lives may be lost today, of course. Maybe even lives I care about more than others. But this is the risk we've always taken.

Mom is on a high building, with a bird's eye view of the open square in front of the royal castle. I couldn't see her form even if I tried to look for her.

This time, fighting erupts inside the castle before it moves its way outside. Those agents we have planted in the empress's ranks open the doors to those of us waiting and we rush in against the stream of shouting guards, weapons poised, merciless.

“This way,” I shout, and my followers cleave a path to the dungeons, picking bodies clean for keys, some staying behind to defend while the rest of us go down into the darkness, to retrieve those lost to us. It's like descending into the underworld, screams and all.

It takes seemingly forever to unlock the doors, and things are made all the more frustrating by one weak magic user in our party who keeps blindly bombarding the doors with spells. Eventually, I have to concentrate deeply and just feel which keys are right, because I'm sure the guards who have survived are bent on trapping us in the dungeon and don't care which of their comrades' neck we are holding knives to. A cowardly guard who swears he'd rather betray the empress than “die like a dog by your hands” helps us unlock the doors and escort prisoners out.

The torture chambers – those, I don't even want to describe, for my own mental wellbeing and for the privacy of those victims who found themselves trapped there, but I feel like I have to at least imply the horrors, to remember the wrongs so they won't be erased later on.

The smell is the worst. The guard helping us confesses that if we tear down the walls, we'll find even more bodies. He says there's a rumor the witch keeps body parts and bones and blood for spells, and I am shaken with revulsion at what is before me, and the memory of the odd jars in her study. I'm overcome with guilt. _I should have tried to kill her._ But what's past is past. The guard says he doesn't know where half of the bodies go. They get taken somewhere, though. There's a whole group of guys whose job is to just transport them out of the capital, butchered, of course, to look innocuous, should anyone demand to see what's under the tarp. He says he bets they're being sold as food and I tell him to shut up and help those who are alive out of the many devices in which they're ensnared.

It's horrible. We need bandages, but we don't have enough. We need more, stronger people to support these victims, help them escape, but there are just too many, and they are too injured.

I hear a gunshot in the far corner and see a revolutionary standing, shaking, over a mangled carapace's body. “H-he begged me,” he's whispering, tears springing to his eyes, “he begged me to kill him. I couldn't just leave him alive like this! Please, don't be mad at me!”

I smack him with his own gun. “No more mercy killings!” I demand, but others are looking at me with huge eyes.

“But how are we going to get _everyone_ out? They're too weak! They'll slow us down!”

“Those on the ground floor are taking care of the guards as we speak.” I hoist someone onto my back, trying to ignore the thickness of the grime on their skin against my hands. “We just have to trust that they've cleared the way for us.”

“But soldiers will be coming from all corners of the city any time now!”

“We still have to _try,”_ I snap, and I see some people nod. My followers gather their resolve and similarly prop up and hoist prisoners onto their shoulders and backs. “Keep an arm free,” I remind them, “to use a weapon in defense of yourself.” But there aren't enough of us here, to help everyone get out. With regret, we leave behind the weakest, most physically battered of the prisoners. I try to tell myself it wasn't cruel of me to demand no one kill out of mercy, to tell myself that we'll be back for them soon.

We pour of of the dungeon, those of us most able in front with the weapons ready to fire. The way is mostly clear – it's not that we don't have to defend ourselves at all, but those agents we planted in the castle do most of the work. My group rushes through the familiar halls, past fights and flame and out into the open of the square. “Keep running!” I scream. “Don't stop, not even for a second!” A pair to my right stumble. I look over and see Akatos, and, with her, a human man whose left leg looks horribly mangled. He can't run anymore, not without destroying himself. I see a curse form on her lips and she hoists the man up in her arms, bridal style, and keeps running. I shout to someone near me with free hands to watch out for her, and defend her if need be. They nod and run to her side.

We rush down the steps for the many carriages waiting at the edge of the square. I keep to the back of the group, shouting orders, looking out for everyone, watching to make sure those who reach the carriages manage to get those they've rescued on safely when it finally happens. From east and west there is a rumble of boot steps and then, from the rooftops, someone on our side screams, “They're coming!” I lower the person from my back and ask a younger looking soldier near me to take them to the carriages. The horses are starting to get upset by the activity, rearing up, and I hope they don't hurt anyone. I turn, weapon poised, ready to hold off whoever I have to to make sure the victims of the empress get out okay. There are others who gather by me, and I hear orders snapped by my inferiors for some to hand off their victims and those who have already boarded someone to get away from the carriages and focus on defense. And then, just as there are the snaps of reigns and the battering of many horses' hooves, the empress's men come.

It is infuriating, that we have finally breached the castle walls, and now we might not be able to get back inside. I shoot until there are no bullets left and several oncoming soldiers have been laid to waste, and then I am forced to use my rifle as a blunt weapon. The soldiers, thankfully, are almost as depleted of warm bodies and weapons as we are, but I would bet anything that those who are out of bullets are getting the most injured. I try to block oncoming hits where I can, to use my power in defense, but it is just too much to look after so many people at once, and eventually I am forced to focus on my combat with the guy in front of me.

Someone shouts to look out, but they didn't attach a name to the warning, there are just too many people yelling at once, and I am hit savagely hard in the head. I go down as a familiar voice cries out, “ _Roxy!”_ and to anyone looking down on me, I must look dead. I try to get up but I can't move. There's a foot pressing down on my ribcage and I think, this is it.

I stare helplessly at the soldier standing above me, about to beat my body to a pulp, but then there is a familiar red cape, a familiar sword, and my father is above me, ruthlessly fighting. There is noise and crashing all around me, and all I can think is, _Why is he here?_ With his injury, I forbade him from fighting on the front lines, I told him to run the carriage operation, but then, as he finally strikes the soldier down, I think, maybe it's good, that my dad's so disobedient.

Dad leans down and shakes me. “Roxy – Roxy, get up!” I try to tell him I'm okay, but my reply is a confused mumble. He curses and starts to hoist me up. “Dammit, we have to get out of here!”

“Nn... No,” I mumble, “your leg...”

I flop uselessly and something wet trickles down my face. Oh, god, I must really look dead. Oh, god – what if I'm really dying?!

My dad is struggling to lift my body, uncaring of the clang of metal and shouts of ager around him when suddenly, there is a tremble throughout the city square. Where I am sprawled out, I feel the ground start to vibrate beneath me. I bring myself, finally, to a sitting position, digging my hand in my hair and feeling for a wound. I look up and my dad is staring at the sky, which is rapidly darkening, like a rainstorm has appeared from absolutely nowhere. His mouth is open and the noise of battle is quieting down as the square continues to shake. “Earthquake!” I hear someone shout, fearful, but people aren't sure where to go, and so there is senseless pandemonium.

And then there is a sound. A deep, ethereal sound. It's almost like a human voice, but on a grander scale. It gibbers nonsense – no. The creature speaks the Old Language into the air and its voice resonates like a whale's call in water. My father reaches for my hand and, with urgency, whispers, “ _Stand up!_ ”

With his grip supporting me, I finally do. Everyone is deathly silent and staring in the direction of where the carriages have long since disappeared. I squint. Something huge and dark sits in the distance, and I almost think it's just more dark clouds before it starts to move – or. Lurch, would be a better way to describe that. It writhes, and something long and shiny curls up towards the sky, then several more, and then it's mouth, a great, shining beak in a mass of tentacles, opens up. And we here the strange, almost human sound again.

“Dad?” My voice cracks.

“Yes, Roxy?”

“Is... is that a horrorterror?”

I can actually hear him swallow. “I've never seen one alive, but I think that's a safe assumption.”

I stare at it, open-mouthed, struggling to form the next question. All that comes out is, “ _How?_ ”

“I don't know,” my dad says, grip tight on my arm, “but we have to get out of here.”

The creature roars, and suddenly everyone is screaming and running in the opposite direction. To our horror,  _the thing starts moving towards us._ As it moves, the ground shakes, the sky darkens, and buildings fall in its wake, producing more trembles, and great clouds of rubble-filled smoke. 

My dad yanks my arm and I remember. “Wait – wait, Dad, Mom's over there, she's in that... _thing's_ path!”

He pales for a moment before his eyes grow hard with resolve. “Then we have to go get her before it does, don't we?”

And we go. We run against a tide of people, in uniform, in rebel rags, rushing and screaming with no regard to their enemies' proximity. Some break out into bickers when they reach a space of high crowding, shoving one another viciously, throwing slurs and grievances, but once they hit spots of looser packing of bodies they sprint on, uncaring of their squabbles, desperate to survive.

My father and I run full speed. He points - “There, that's where we stationed her,” and we head for the door of the building. People who were inside are still frantically making their escape, so it's easy enough to figure out where the stairwell is, because everyone else is running in the opposite direction from it. We are forced to shove people out of the way so that we can get inside and ascend as fast as possible.

I can tell this is all a terrible strain on Dad, but when I ask if he needs help, he just grits his teeth and tells me to go on ahead. He keeps up with me dangerously well; after this is over, his leg is going to be in so much pain. As the stream of people running past us slows to a trickle and then disappears, not one has heard of her, not one  _is_ her. And the closer we get to the roof, the heavier and deeper I feel the dread.

When we finally throw open the door to the roof, I'm almost unsurprised. Mom is there, her back to us, her body facing the castle. Her neck is bent strangely and she is twitching. Her hood is up and her sleeves are long, and I think. I think at first she's wearing gloves.

But there is a dark aura around her. And beneath the crumble and crash of the creature drawing closer, of the ground shaking, I can hear her babble in Old Language. She twitches and jerks and she's standing on a circle of blood marked with symbols and I know, I know what is going on.

While my father catches his breath in the doorway, I run to her. I run to her and I grab her and turn her towards me, and she twitches and fucking  _growls_ in my arms. Her skin is so dark gray it's almost black, and she burns in my hands. I cannot tell if her eyes are white or if she's simply rolled them so far back in her head the whites are all I can see.

“What's wrong with her?” Dad shouts behind me.

“Destroy the circle,” I reply. “Smear it, with your shoes, crush the ingredients and kick them out of their places, _go!_ ”

My mother struggles violently against me, babbling and snarling while I drag her out of the circle. Meanwhile, Dad follows my orders, and I hear him stomp and curse, wondering out loud what the hell has happened to his wife.

I shake Mom again. “Mom – Mom! Talk to me!” Her arms lock up and she jerks, babbles. It's terrifying seeing her like this. I have to snap her out of this, but I don't know how, so I start by telling her who she is. “Your name is Rose Lalonde. You were born in Prospit.” She jerks her head back and forth and I talk louder to mask my fear. “You were a top magic student! You fell in love with your brother and ran away to Derse to be with him! You have two children! One died, but the other is right here, and she's determined to make sure you're okay!”

With the circle destroyed, the magic starts to wear off. Her babbling drifts into a mumble, her skin starts to lighten and then regain some color. But she's pale, and she's growing colder and colder. She mumbles one word, my name, a question, “Roxy?” but then she's out, head lolling to the side. Panicked, I press my fingers to her pulse, and it's there. But it's weak.

I hear Dad's voice hitch. “Is she-?”

“She's alive,” I confirm. “But she's exhausted. This is probably the most powerful spell she's ever cast.”

Behind us, another ethereal roar sounds. Even without turning to look, we can see the massive tentacled beast continuing on its path, heading for the city square. Heading for us.

“I don't get it,” Dad says, panicked. “We destroyed the circle, we brought her back to normal – why is that thing still coming?”

“It's a summoning spell,” I whisper. I look at her sleeping face. There is no peace in it. “I don't know much, but. I think, when you bring something into the world, it's here, and it stays here until you or somebody else takes it out.”

“But how – _how?_ Aren't all the horrorterrors dead?”

“The sea is a big place,” I mutter. I hand her to him. “And the entirety of the world is yet to be discovered. I don't know how she brought this thing here, if it's even real, and I don't know that it's not just some... illusion run amok, but you need to take her somewhere safe.”

“What about you?” he asks. His face is a picture of bewilderment. “Roxy, you need to come with us! If you stay here-!”

We hear a roar and it seems to be too late. We brace ourselves to be crushed by flailing tentacles as the creature comes close, its shadow plunging us into darkness, but even as the building shakes, it never comes crashing down, and the creature lurches past us, heading straight for the castle.

In the distance, on the balcony, someone stands. I see big hair, like a dark aura. Two tall, orange horns. A triton. The Condesce opens her arms like she's welcoming her mother home. She's tiny, a blur from here, and I wish I could hear what she's saying to the square, but if she's projecting her voice, we're out of range.

“ _Roxy,_ ” my dad says again, “we have to go!”

“No,” I say, “we're safe now.”

“It could turn around any-!”

“Look,” I say, and he does.

Once the creature passes us, it seems to pick up momentum. It's almost as if, while my mother was trying to control it, it was wading, with difficulty, through our world, like the air was molasses. But now it moves with a frightening speed for a creatures its size. I imagine marionette strings snapping as it gets farther and farther from my mother and closer to the castle, and the creature roars, rearing up, and the Condesce doesn't move an inch from where she stands out in the open –

We hear a great crash of the creature against rubble, we see its mouth snapping, and I know that Her Imperious Condescension is no more. The creature crashes and hits the castle with its tentacles, flailing, crying out in that strangely human voice. Like a child in anguish, confused, it lashes out and towers fall, walls fall to ruins, and whoever was left in the castle, whoever is not streaming out now is doomed for sure.

And then the destruction of the castle is over in an instant, and the creature bellows and moves on.

“It's not stopping,” I realize.

“It's going to level the whole city,” Dad says. “Roxy...”

There are no spell books on the roof. I ask Dad to check Mom's pockets. He starts to argue and I shout, “Do you want to stop this thing, or do you want to watch it kill our family and friends?!”

He relents. Careful not to drop his wife's limp form, he reaches down and searches for pockets sown carefully into the fabric to look innocuous. Nothing. He sticks his hand in the sash tied around her waist, however, and then he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. He looks bewildered as he hands the sepia-colored page to me.

There is a message on the age-darkened paper in white ink. The handwriting is immaculate, standing still against the creep and crawl of Old Language.  _Godspeed, my friend. O_

No, that's not an O, I realize. It's a colored circle. A white, solid circle, but that doesn't mean anything more to me than the letter O would. I touch it and feel a shiver of revulsion, but then I am done pondering. I read the text as the city continues crashing down around me, but. I'm not smart enough. I don't understand any of it. The word equations, they're too complicated, I don't understand the associations being made. “Roxy,” my dad says, “we have to go,” and I close my eyes and try to... to  _feel_ the spell, to  _feel_ it's meaning, to beseech whatever the source of this power,  _what do I do?_

And then I know. I open my eyes. I hand the page to my dad and walk away, to the edge of the roof, just shy enough that, should I stumble, I will not fall. I want to close the distance between the creature and me as best as I can, and this is the most I can do with it already halfway across the city.

I hold up my hands, and I look to where the creature is now toppling buildings further in the distance. The screams of Derse's citizens fleeing for their lives form a white noise and I close my eyes and try to block all of the suffering out. Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

The strings. The strings illuminate the darkness, sewing every piece of matter together and connecting those pieces fated to meet. I look closer and the strings burn white in the darkness, tiny words, symbols, a mathematical language twisting and braiding the threads of reality. I pluck.

There is a roar and I waver, and there are hands on me, steadying me. Someone is calling to me, but I try to sink back into the void. Darkness ebbs and flows around me and the strings are wavering, but I feel, as I did with the Condesce, and I follow the source of an immense, destructive... but not malevolent power. And I pluck again.

Another roar penetrates the darkness like an arm in the water. Someone is trying to talk into my ear and it is panicked but I cannot stop now. I decide not to pluck, this time, I – I touch and twist the words, I rearrange them, and it feels like sticking your arm in a fresh body might, and my hands, they're slick, I can feel it, and there are roars rocking my body almost as if they are sounding right in front of me, but somebody, somebodies are keeping me steady and I use every ounce of my power for the final blow.

I open my eyes and the world swims, but hands steady me, keep me from falling and I lean back, into their arms and they understand and pull me to the safety of the center of the roof. In the distance, in the ruins of the capital, the horrorterror gives a mournful cry and collapses. I imagine its last thoughts were confused and scared.

I wonder if there's anyone remaining to clean its corpse up, or if it'll be left to rot all over a ghost town.

I lift my hands. They're dry. I'm lying on my back and not one, but two pairs of faces are looking down at me. My Mom's face is pale and white and drenched in sweat, but she makes an effort to smile. I smile back.

We don't rush ourselves. We just sit for a while, catching our breath, gathering our strength. My dad opens his mouth and I expect him to chastise one of us, but all he says is, “I feel like an insect next to you two.”

I laugh. It's not that funny or clever but I laugh and laugh. My mom tries to join in but she wheezes and coughs and there's blood in her hand, and then it's not funny anymore.

“We need to get you help,” Dad says. We stand and she wraps her arms around his and leans. I am exhausted, but I can't let them support me right now, not when she needs him more. I lead the way down the steps and out of the building. We walk like we're on ice, afraid the earthquakes from the horrorterror's journey have made the building unstable. I'm still surprised the creature's even dead. I'm afraid it'll come back any minute now and kill us all.

When we get outside, I comment, “There might be looters. Stay close-”

There is a thump. I turn and Mom has passed out again. Dad leans down and gets his hands under her body. “Oh, no you don't.  You're not getting away from me so easy, Rose. Til death do us part, and there's no way in hell I'm letting you die first!” With a grunt, he hoists her up onto his back.

“Dad,” I protest, “Don't strain-”

“I'll be fine,” he replies, quickly. “But we've gotta' move. We can't stay here anymore. The city's destroyed, so we have to get to the nearest village with, with a medic, and we need to get your Mom some help.”

“I'll carry her-”

“No.” His voice is firm. “You just did... whatever the fuck you just did. I don't know how you can even walk right now.”

I am in awe of him. I've seen it so many times, but it's really hitting me, now, how much they love each other. Their love is... it's unusual, it's maybe even repulsive, but I wonder, if all their years fighting together, if all they've done for one another hasn't built something worthy out of what was broken and strange.

“We'll trade shifts,” I say after a while. “Trade Mom off when one of us gets tired.” He doesn't reply, but I know that doesn't mean No. But if he does protest later, I'm not just a kid anymore. He can't order me not to help.

We walk. We pass piles of discarded objects and I pick up a beam of wood, and then, later, an empty gun. It belonged to one of the empress's men. It's all sharp edges, perfect for combat, even without bullets. Some people run past us, and there are thicker crowds gathering, rushing out of the city in the regions unharmed by the beast. There are dead bodies, crushed and mutilated, and we try not to look at them as we keep moving on.

“There are going to be a lot of refugees,” Dad says, after a while. He laughs, but it's humorless. “We're really going to have our work cut out for us. Because we'll come back, and. We'll encounter them on the way, I'm sure. And we'll help whoever we can, because even now that the capital is... fucking dust, we made this war for the people. We can't just turn our backs on them now.”

I nod. He swallows, and keeps talking. Nervous rambling, Mom has always called it, when he talks through the fear. But it doesn't feel quite like rambling, this time. He's making perfect sense, he's not wasting a word. “I can't believe the city is really destroyed,” Dad says. “Your mother and I found refuge here when we were at our lowest. Now...” He shakes his head. “Now we're all refugees again. We... were were the rottenest of the rotten people who found a rotten place to come home, but now it's gone, and. Where are all of us rotten people supposed to go?”

What he's saying reminds me of the way people in Prospit have always talked about Derse. The way some Dersites, even, talk about Derse.

I mean, you know, people have always said that there was something innately wrong about Derse. There was just something about that country that drove its citizens wild with bloodlust and anarchism and destitution, something about that country that made the only thing consistent about its government how unstable and corrupt it was. Even now, with the capital a wasteland, it seems the thing keeping Derse at its worse will always prevail, in the hearts of its rotten people, even as Derse itself falls to ruin.

But that's not true. At least, I don't think. There are good people here. My parents didn't come to Derse driven by an innate badness in their own hearts – but they did come here because of something kindred, I think. But it wasn't savageness, it wasn't immorality. It was just an understanding of what it's like to be abused by forces beyond your control. Derse is infamous for being violent and dark – but why are those attributes hated? Derse is violent because people are forever fighting for their rights. Derse is dark because – well, because Prospit polluted it. But the darkness we create, with steep corners and paint and spells, is for our own protection. The cover of nightfall, of twilight.

So I say to my dad, “Derse isn't rotten,” because it isn't. And I say, “You're not rotten,” because he – because our _family_ , isn't. Even now, I tell him, even as it crumbles, Derse is a place where justice is raised to adulthood.

It cannot be rotten. It is my home.

→

Dad quietly cries for a while after I tell him all that, and then we just don't talk. Mom doesn't stop breathing, but she doesn't wake up, either. By nightfall, we reach a river. We settle down in to sleep amongst the stars, and I dream. I dream I am floating, and a girl with Beatrix's face wraps green hands around mine and whispers, you are the universe that envelops the sun and keeps it safe in her arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so, SO freaking much for all of your support!!! I cannot believe this fic is over... I spent MONTHS writing it, and now it's not just done, it's all been released! Wow!
> 
> Guess what? The Pound of Flesh Series? It's is a trilogy!
> 
> The next fic will be about Jake; we'll finally figure out what the hell happened to him during/after the events of I'll Have My Pound of Flesh Rare. He'll be sharing the narrative focus with another character, who will be making her first ever physical appearance in the series... We'll also get cameos from our dearest Strider family, and get to see the fate of Derse... This final "main" fic will have its first chapter posted sometime in... June? I hope...  
> I'd also really love to write a oneshot about Snowman and Damara! No idea when I'd finish that by, though.


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